


Love What is Behind You

by KouriArashi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, BAMF Allison, BAMF Stiles, Dystopia, Eventual Happy Ending, Hale Family Feels, Humans vs. Werewolves, Hunger Games Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Peter, Oppression, Pack Dynamics, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: Basically what it says on the label. Hunger Games type fusion. Stiles doing way better than anyone anticipates. Peter finds him intriguing. Ruthless, devious assholes working together to ruin bad guys, as the Steter ship is meant to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My love for this ship will never die. Also I really wanted to write a fic in which Stiles and Allison are friends who work together and are both hella badass.
> 
> Basically it's sort of like ... if the Hunger Games had multiple rounds. Kind of like Hunter x Hunter if any of y'all are familiar with that. Most of the exposition you'll need is in the first chapter but let me know if you have questions. ^_^
> 
> PS - I know that canonically Stiles isn't small, but it worked here so I rolled with it. Also, I guess I might as well use Papa Stilinski's real name now that we know what it is. Feels weird. XD
> 
> PPS - I also kind of messed with people's ages because I didn't want Peter to be like 20 years older than Stiles, plus I wanted Talia's death to be more recent, so Derek and the others are younger, and ... et cetera, et cetera, I DO WHAT I WANT!

 

In the eighteen years since Stiles was born, the Survival Games have been held eighteen times. He sometimes thinks that it’s interesting, that they started the year that he was born. Is it a sign that he’s going to be chosen? He supposes that it can’t be. He’s far from the only eighteen year old in the running, and he didn’t get chosen any of the last three years.

His camp has never had a winner in those eighteen years, which isn’t really surprising. He doesn’t know exactly how many slave camps there are, but it’s well over two hundred. It takes a lot of slaves to support a population of tens of thousands of werewolves. A lot of grain to harvest, a lot of livestock to raise.

Camp Forty-Two, where he’s lived his entire life, is attached to a steel mill. His father has worked there since before Stiles was born, and Stiles has been working there since he was twelve. He’s got a job as a cleaner. There are only a few people small enough to fit into the vents and the innards of the machinery to clean it out. Most people grow out of it, but Stiles didn’t. It’s because of malnourishment, or so he assumes. For every hour that a person works, they get chips, which are exchanged for food and other necessities. But his mother hasn’t been able to work since she fell ill when he was seven. They’ve survived on just his father’s chips since then, and it hasn’t been easy. That’s why he had started working so young, but even then, he had only gotten paid half of what the adults got paid.

He vividly remembers when his mother had first gotten sick, when she had still been herself. He remembers when she had begged his father to kill her, rather than waste his chips feeding her. His father had stalwartly refused to hear anything about it. Instead, he worked longer and longer hours, and ate less and less. It wasn’t until he collapsed at work and nearly wound up taken out with the trash that he had agreed to reconsider. He ate enough to keep himself healthy, and if Stiles and his mother felt the shortage, neither of them ever breathed a word of it. Even so, when the boys around him were hitting puberty and growing like beanstalks, Stiles had been left behind. He didn’t even come up to his father’s shoulders.

Some people would have been upset, but Stiles didn’t mind. It meant he could keep his job as a cleaner, which was far less arduous and dangerous than actually working on the mill floor. The thought of his size and strength affecting him in the Survival Games has never really crossed his mind. They’re from a big camp, with over a thousand people. He was entered into the pool at fifteen, and he’ll stay there until thirty-five, barring death or debilitating injury. That’s only twenty times he has to beat the one-in-a-thousand odds. Twenty in a thousand. Zero point zero two percent. He has a better chance of being crushed or cooked alive at work.

Which is what he’s vaguely thinking until the wheel spins and the name is withdrawn and his stomach drops because he knows it’s him. He knows from the look on the announcer’s face. The faint confusion over being confronted with a tongue-twister instead of a name. He even glances over at his shoulder as if to ask some nonexistent person behind him if this is real, before clearing his throat and saying, “Mikey . . . slaw . . . Stilinski?”

The thought of correcting him on the pronunciation is nowhere near the top of Stiles’ mind. He stands there, frozen. There’s a faint murmur through the crowd, an unhappy one. Stiles is well known around the plant. Both he and his father are well-liked. Besides, nobody likes it when someone young is chosen. It feels unfair.

Someone squeezes his shoulder and gives him a gentle shove, and that breaks him out of his shock. He takes a few shaking steps forward, looking around for his father. The crowd parts to let him through, up onto the narrow stage. The announcer, clearly relieved that ‘Mikey-slaw’ had recognized his own name, goes into his practiced spiel about the honors of the games and how this young man could bring glory to all of them.

“Stiles – Stiles!” His father is trying to break through the crowd now, but several of the other men are holding him back. “Damn it, get off me – Stiles!”

Stiles is ushered out of the room before he can see what happens. He knows he’ll get a chance to say goodbye to his father. He just hopes his father doesn’t do anything stupid. He’s not really thinking about anything else, about the games or how he’s going to survive them. It feels like a bad dream, and he’s waiting to wake up.

“You’re a scrawny one, ain’t ya?” the werewolf in charge of their camp greets him, and starts laughing.

“Must be because I grew in a cave like a mushroom,” Stiles shoots back, without thinking about whether or not sassing the werewolf guard is a great idea. It’s marginally true. He’s been outside a half dozen times in his life, and never for very long. The barracks are attached to the mill, and they’re never allowed to go anywhere else, so why would he need to go outside?

The guard opens his mouth, but then Stiles’ father pushes his way inside, grabbing Stiles in a rib-crushing hug. “You’re not taking him,” he says to the guard, clinging to Stiles. “I don’t care what that damned lottery says, you’re not – ”

“Dad,” Stiles says, his voice muffled in his father’s shoulder.

“Be quiet, Stiles, let me handle this – ”

“You’re going to be handling these in a minute,” the werewolf says, waving his claws in Noah's face.

“Dad, stop,” Stiles says, pushing away. “You can’t stop them from taking me.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Noah says, his voice cracking. “You’re my son, my _only_ son, they’re taking you over my dead body – ”

“Which is exactly what’s going to happen! And then they’ll take me anyway!” Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, tries not to look at the agony etched into his father’s face. “Dad, please. Please . . . don’t do this. I don’t want them to hurt you. Okay?”

His father tries to say something, but can’t. Instead, he hugs Stiles again, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles says, trying to sound like he believes it. “I’m not strong, but I’m quick, right? Being quick is good.”

“Quick and clever,” Noah manages to say. “You’ll be the smartest person there.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees. “I can win, okay? I can – I can at least try.” A thought occurs to him, and he feels a little bit of hope for the first time since the announcer butchered his name. “Look, the winner gets the honor of the Bite, right? For their entire family. I can – I can give it to Mom. It’ll get her better. Make her well again.”

Noah stands back, his hands resting on Stiles’ shoulders, looking his son in the face as if he wants to memorize it. “Listen,” he says, and his voice cracks, but then steadies. “You’re going to put in a lot of situations where you aren’t sure what the right thing to do is. You’re going to face people who are just as desperate to survive as you are. They aren’t your enemy, and you know that, in here.” He gently touches Stiles’ chest. “But you still have to fight. You have to survive. No matter what, you have to survive. Not for Mom, not for me, but for yourself. Okay?”

Stiles nods and whispers, “Okay.”

His father hugs him again, so tightly that it hurts, and he won’t let go. The werewolf starts to give a low growl, and two of his father’s friends come in and gently pry him off.

“I’ll see you in a couple months,” Stiles says, as if this is just a vacation and everything’s going to be fine. The door shuts behind his father, and he hears the thump as he hits the floor, the hoarse sobs that follow. He squares his jaw and swallows his tears, turning his attention to the werewolf. “Time to go?”

“This way.” The werewolf can tell he’s not about to make a run for the exit, so he doesn’t bother to grab him. Stiles follows him down a narrow hallway and outside.

Outside. The last time he was outside was at least two years ago. The sunlight stabs at his eyes, making him wince. The interior of the camp is fairly dim, and he has excellent night vision, but daylight hurts. He manages to look around and see a car. He’s never been in one, never needed one. He can’t keep his curiosity to himself. “These things run on gasoline, right? Are there slave camps that work on oil rigs? How do you get gasoline from crude oil?”

“How the fuck should I know?” the werewolf asks, shoving him into the backseat.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks. “I mean, obviously we’re going to the capitol, right? But how do we get there? Do we drive the whole way? How far is it?”

“Hey, kid, you wanna shut up?” the werewolf retorts. He gets behind the wheel and starts driving.

Stiles knows approximately what’s going to happen now. The games aren’t shown at the camps in their entirety, but they get a ‘highlights reel’ every year, which is generally framed to show the eventual survivor as a protagonist and focus on their struggles. He knows that there will be at least eight or ten rounds to get through, each one different. Some of them will last several days and focus on survival skills. Others are simple one-on-one fights. Sometimes they fight other contestants; sometimes they fight some mythical monster that the werewolves caught. Sometimes they’re put on teams, only to have to fight their comrade in the next game.

The winner gets the ‘honor’ of the Bite, along with their immediate family and, depending on how many people that is, a few others they choose from their camp. They’re brought to one of the werewolf settlements to live real, enjoyable lives.

Stiles has never been entirely sure why they do that. He’d think that survival would be enough of an incentive for any of the contestants to fight. He’s sure there’s a reason for it, and not for the first time, wonders what it is.

The camps don’t really hear much about what’s going on in the games in real time, but if their contestant is killed, they’re notified. So everyone at the mill will be on edge for as long as Stiles can survive. Stiles is determined to make that a long time. He knows that there are long odds. But hell, there were long odds against him being chosen in the first place. And yet, here he is.

“Here I am,” he mutters, as the car starts down the road.

To which the werewolf says, “Shut up, kid.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The atmosphere in the tiny Hale den is tense as Derek paces around and Cora sits at the table and scowls at her plate. Peter’s forbidden them from eating until Laura gets there. They’re hungry, but that’s not why they’re tense. It’s never a good thing when Laura is late getting home. The possible reasons for her tardiness are numerous, and none of them are good.

“Cover the food before it gets cold,” Peter says.

“But Uncle Peter – ” Cora begins, and then stops when he gives her a look. She mutters an apology and takes out some towels to drape over the plates.

“How about we pass the time with the next chapter of the Canterbury Tales?” Peter asks, going over to his small collection of books. They’re his most precious possessions. He tosses the book to Derek, who nods and sits down in the corner, pulling Cora down alongside him before he begins reading aloud. Cora is restless, but she settles.

Laura comes in about half an hour later. She’s muddy and soaked and obviously exhausted, but not injured. Derek and Cora both immediately start fussing over her, but Peter doesn’t. Laura is fine. There’s no need to worry. “You didn’t need to wait for me,” she says, as she sits down at the table and pulls the towel off her food.

“Whatever,” Cora says, and Peter doesn’t reply at all. They always wait until Laura gets home to begin their meal, and she always tells them not to. Peter insists. There are certain rules of pack behavior that he’s not willing to let go. The Hale pack is small, and broken, but they _are_ still a pack. If they give up on protocol, they won’t even be that anymore. He won’t allow that to happen. Nobody eats until the alpha eats. But Laura’s token protest is fine. She understands why he does what he does, but she still needs to act like a big sister. Her siblings are young, and frightened, and need a sister’s reassurance more than an alpha’s command.

He might not be an alpha, but he does what he can to fill the role. There are times he bitterly wishes that Talia had not left this responsibility to him, but he understands why she did. He understands that he’s the only Hale who could possibly keep her children alive after what had happened. If Talia’s dying wish was for him to protect her children, he’ll do that, even while resenting every moment.

They’re good kids. He still thinks of Laura as a child even though she’s twenty-one now, to his thirty, and Derek just turned eighteen. Cora is only fourteen. Talia’s death, along with the rest of their family, is three years behind them. For three years, Peter has struggled to keep their heads above water. At least Laura is capable of pulling her weight now. He wishes he could spare her the shame of her position, as the Omega of Alphas. The other alphas order her around, give her tasks to do and errands to run that they could easily do themselves, use her as a whipping post every time something happens that they don’t like.

It’s protocol, hierarchy, and to be honest Peter had never thought much about how humiliating the position was until his pack had fallen into it.

He’s spared the worst of it, partly because he’s a beta, but also because the settlement depends on him and he knows it. He doesn’t have an official position, but he’s the fixer – the one they call when one of the slave camps isn’t being productive and they don’t know why. Intellect isn’t exactly prized amongst werewolves. They’re physical creatures, and that’s what most of them focus on. Peter was born a werewolf, but his father was human, and he sometimes thinks that’s why he’s different. Derek seems to have inherited the same tendencies.

Because of that, Peter is by far one of the most educated people in the entire settlement. His father had saved as many books as he could find over the course of his life, both fiction and non-fiction, and Peter has read them so many times that he has some of them memorized. He understands humans better than any other werewolf living, now that Talia is dead. He has a passable understanding of biology, physics, mechanics, and agriculture.

The werewolves don’t like admitting it, but they depend on the humans to keep them alive. The slave camps are responsible for the vast majority of the food the werewolves consume, not to mention mining for raw materials, building furniture and electronics, making their clothing, and, of course, providing entertainment.

Since they depend on the camps, they also depend on Peter. When a camp falls below expectations, he gets to go find out why. Sometimes it’s a simple, easy fix – one camp was riddled with scurvy because the werewolf in charge forgot to request citrus in their rations. Sometimes it’s difficult, like the camp that went into full rebellion after too many people had died on unsafe equipment. And sometimes it’s impossible to explain to the werewolves. He vividly remembers one time that a camp had fallen behind after the death of a child everyone had loved, and how the werewolves couldn’t understand why that would affect production. Werewolves are pack oriented, almost a hive mind in some ways. The death of an individual should be mourned, surely, but after a day or two they put it behind them and focus back on the pack. Humans aren’t the same way. Tragedy strikes them harder, on a personal level. Peter’s explanation hadn’t satisfied anybody, particularly the part where his advice was just to wait it out, that punishing the humans for their grief would only make the situation worse. But they took his advice. They always took his advice.

He’s started taking Derek with him on these trips, because Derek is smart and eager to learn. He doesn’t have Peter’s cunning streak, but for this, he doesn’t really need it. If he understands the camps, he’ll become indispensable in the event that something happens to Peter. He can’t do much for Cora, who rejects his books and his training, but she’s a fighter. The werewolves respect that. She could survive if she was sent to the rings.

“Earth to Peter,” Laura says, and he blinks at her, coming out of his thoughts. She laughs a little. “Where did you go?”

“Just thinking my thinks,” he says.

“Hey, Uncle Peter, why do we say ‘earth to someone’?” Derek asks.

“Excellent question, Derek.” Peter puts down his fork and says, “Did you know that the humans actually went into space at one point? They landed on the moon.”

Derek’s eyes go wide. Even Cora is interested. “The moon in the sky?”

“Do you know of any other?” Peter asks.

Cora wrinkles her nose at him. “You can go there?”

“Well, _we_ can’t,” Peter says. “Not even the Druids can. But the humans did. They built a rocket that propelled them out of the atmosphere, and it took them all the way to the moon and back.”

“That’s amazing,” Laura says.

“So when they were on their rocket,” Peter says, keeping things simply for the sake of brevity, “if the humans here wanted to talk to them, they would use their radio and start with ‘Earth to rocket’ to let them know who was calling who.”

“Neat,” Cora says, going back to her dinner.

“I can’t believe that people who could build rockets to go to the moon lost a war with us,” Derek says, scowling. Peter doesn’t respond. As he’s gotten older, Derek has expressed more and more curiosity about The War of the Wolves, and Peter hasn’t wanted to encourage it. Asking too many questions about how the werewolves came to power is never a good idea. He might have to rethink that soon. Derek’s probably old enough to understand now, and his curiosity isn’t going away.

Laura is the one who replies. “Don’t let anyone else hear you say that, little brother.”

Derek growls but nods. Peter isn’t worried about that, at least – Derek has an anti-social streak a mile wide and bitterly resents the other werewolves for the way they treat Laura. He has no friends, so there’s really nobody outside the pack that he talks to. He would probably never leave their den if Peter didn’t make him.

Werewolves might not be intellectuals, but there are enough in the settlement that aren’t stupid to make it dangerous. Peter knows that the official story they tell around campfires, that the wolves were strong and fierce and crushed the humans with their power, are utterly untrue. But he knows why they tell the stories, too, not just to the humans but to the younger werewolves. Imagination is more powerful than knowledge. If the werewolves believe they’re strong, then they are. If they find out that the werewolves only won the war because of the Druids – and that the Druids only chose their side because of rampant xenophobia among the humans – then they might start to doubt their position of power. With the humans still in active rebellion, that’s dangerous. The war is only barely fading from living memory now. There are still some older werewolves and humans who remember it, even if they were very young when it happened.

“Oh, hey, don’t the games start tomorrow?” Laura asks.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Are you going to go watch?”

“No.”

Laura hesitates. She’s never been comfortable giving Peter her orders, and he probably wouldn’t take them if she did. Instead, she says cautiously, “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I can skip out on the first game. It’s a survival game and it’ll last several days, to weed out the weakest of the contestants. Nobody sticks around for the whole thing anyway, and nobody will care whether or not I show up.” Peter finishes the last of his steak and reaches for another roll. “Most of the ‘wolves don’t care until the second or third game.”

“Okay,” Laura says, clearly relieved that Peter has put thought into it and she doesn’t have to question his judgment. She’s well aware that Peter hates the games, and in fact he’s told the courts that from the standpoint of human psychology, they’re a terrible idea. Productivity always drops during them, and the court gets annoyed, and he’s explained repeatedly that they’re just borrowing trouble.

‘It’s a show of our strength,’ is what they always reply. ‘We can go in and take whoever we want.’

‘Nobody who has to show their strength is truly strong,’ Peter says, ‘and if you give the humans enough time, they’ll figure that out.’

He’s probably lucky they didn’t execute him just for saying that.

Although, in the grand scheme of things, the night is young.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence (obviously) and mentions of prostitution and sexual slavery. Because, you know. Dystopia.
> 
> Also I hardcore stole half of this from Hunter x Hunter and I'm only a little sorry. =D

 

Stiles knows that the first ‘game’ will be something that a lot of people won’t survive, something that will pit the contestants directly against each other. He joins the line as they’re ushered off the train and then onto a ship. It would be nice to get fresh air, but they’re shoved into the inner cabins. Nobody is talking to anyone else. Nobody wants to make friends with someone they might have to kill in a few hours.

They’re on the ship about half an hour before they disembark onto a sandy beach and are herded into lines to stand at attention. Stiles shifts from foot to foot as they wait, and tries to see if he can get a better look at their surroundings. The weather is clear, without a cloud to be seen, and the sun is warm but not blazing. He can see greenery up ahead, but he’s too far back to get a good look at it. Someone is coming down the line, handing each participant a silver coin with a number etched into it. Stiles takes his and sees his camp number on it, forty-two.

“Attention!” a voice, magically amplified, announces. “Game one will now begin! There is no way off this island other than by boat. You will be here for seventy-two hours. By now, you have all received your token. You must end the three-day period with two of them! It does not matter if you still have your own as long as you have a total of two.”

There’s a murmur in the crowd, and Stiles looks around at all these people who are much bigger than him and swallows hard.

“When your number is called, proceed into the arena! You will be released at one minute intervals. At the end of the seventy-two hour period, a gong will sound. You will then have one hour to make it back to this beach. You must have your two tokens _before_ the gong sounds! Any attempt to get a second token after that will disqualify you!”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. It’s going to be a bloodbath. Not just because people will be killing each other for the tokens. They also have to find a way to survive on the island, and do it well enough that they’ll be fit to get back to the beach at the end. If anyone who doesn’t make it back to the beach is disqualified, that’s going to be a lot of bodies.

“Sixty-seven!” the voice shouts, and Stiles jumps a little when he realizes they’re starting. He sees someone dart through the crowd and run into the forest. “Nineteen!”

The numbers are being called randomly. That makes sense, even though it leaves him on edge. The waiting is the hardest part. He can’t formulate any sort of plan when he doesn’t know what he’s going to face.

Fortunately for him, on multiple levels, he’s one of the first dozen called. He sprints into the forest. His goal is to get as far away from the entrance as possible. He needs safety, a place where he can hole up and come up with a plan. He’s going to need to rig up some sort of trap if he wants any chance of actually getting a token from someone else.

General survival might not be as difficult as he had anticipated. The path into the forest is lined by backpacks. Some of them show clear signs of having been gone through, but with only sixty seconds before the next contestant enters, he’s not about to waste time on that. He grabs one that looks untampered with and keeps running, jumping over a bush so he can leave the path.

The scenery is nothing like what he’s used to. The trees are large, some kind of pine that stretch up as far as the eye can see. Their roots are huge, and he nearly trips over one twice. There’s a lot of underbrush once he leaves the path. After a few minutes, he comes out into a meadow filled with yellowing grass all the way up to his knee. He stops and takes a breath, then decides to climb a tree. That will give him a good vantage point, in addition to some small amount of safety.

The tree is easy to climb. The branches are thick and sturdy and not too far apart. He finds a V he can tuck himself into, does so, and listens. He doesn’t hear anything. A faint hum of wind and the very distant noise of the waves. If there’s anyone nearby, he can’t hear them.

After a moment to catch his breath, he opens the backpack and looks to see what’s inside. The first thing he finds is a coil of sturdy rope, then a knife with a blade about four inches long. There’s a plastic water bottle, which is empty except for a little packet of white tablets to purify water. Underneath that is a small package of beef jerky and a bag of raisins. It’s enough for three days, if he rations. Water will be a higher priority.

First things first, he needs to secure the token. He takes off his shoe and slides it down into his sock, wiggling it around until it’s pressed against the bottom of his foot. He puts his shoe back on and ties it, then hears someone beneath him. He goes still, watching as a man walks by without looking up, and lets out a sigh of relief.

It’s quiet again for a long time. Stiles edges down from the tree, looks around cautiously, and starts walking. He needs to find water. Mostly because he needs it, but also because it will be a good place to set his trap. Water is something everyone will need.

He’s so tense that he speeds up to a jog without meaning to. He hates being out in the open and exposed. He wants to get a token as quickly as possible so he can find a safe place to hide for the rest of the three days. He can’t risk getting into an actual fight. There’s no way he would win.

It’s a little less than an hour before he finds a stream. He fills his water bottle and drops in one of the tablets before he tucks it back into his bag. Then he climbs up into a nearby tree and stashes the bag there. He won’t need it for a little while. He needs to get a token first. But he ties the rope around it and let it dangle a little so he’ll be able to pull the bag down without climbing the tree. Then he takes the knife and considers it for a few minutes. “Okay, Stiles,” he mutters to himself. “You can do this. You just need to get someone close to you.”

If another contestant thinks he’s dead or unconscious, they might search him for his token. Or they might think that whoever had disabled him had already taken it. Stiles thinks this over for a while before deciding he doesn’t have a better idea. If he came upon a body, he would still search it, for supplies if nothing else. Hopefully at least one other contestant will have the same idea.

He uses the knife to make a small cut on his arm, where it won’t hinder him if he has to fight. He smears some of the blood on his chin and the side of his face. Then he curls up on the ground near the stream, leaving the bloody side face up and the knife hidden beneath his body.

It seems like he lies there for hours. It gets a little chilly as the wind picks up. He hopes he’s not out after nightfall. He wants to be tucked safely away by then.

A little while later, he hears footsteps. They stop for a minute when the other contestant sees him. Stiles lays as still as he can and tries to keep his face slack. They approach cautiously, and then he hears them kneel beside him. Fingers press into his neck, checking his pulse. Then they’re gone, and there are footsteps.

He thinks for a moment that the other contestant has decided there’s too much risk if he’s alive, then he risks a quick peek around from underneath his lashes. He sees the other man picking up a large rock and starting towards him with it.

Since the man obviously plans to crush his skull just in case, Stiles doesn’t waste time. As soon as the other contestant comes close, he slams the knife down into the man’s foot. He yelps in pain, reeling backwards and dropping the rock. It lands next to Stiles with a thud. He’s already scrambling upwards, driving his shoulder into the man’s groin hard enough to knock him backwards. The man curls into a ball, moaning. Stiles grabs his knife and then presses it against the man’s neck. “Token!”

“Fu . . .” the man whimpers.

Stiles keeps the knife in place with one hand and uses the other to check the man’s pockets. He finds the token, tucked away underneath a handful of bark that’s been chewed on. He pulls away, grabbing his rope to bring his bag to him, and bolts.

He runs as fast as he can until his throat is burning and there’s a stitch in his side. Then he grabs a tree branch and hauls himself up to what he hopes is another safe place.

Once he’s caught his breath, he tucks the second token away in his other shoe. All he has to do now is stay alive for two and a half more days. That won’t be easy, but he thinks he can do it.

He’d like better shelter, but decides not to pursue it right now. Everyone’s on the offensive right now, trying to get a second token. If he’s not the only one who didn’t kill the person he took the token from, there are going to be people who need two, and they’ll be even more aggressive. He’ll stay in the tree for the first night. Tomorrow, he’ll need more water. He can look for shelter at the same time. The dawn hours should be relatively safe. Everyone will push themselves to stay awake through the night, alert to any danger they can’t see, and a lot of people will probably go to sleep at dawn.

He can’t sleep, but he drifts for a little while, thinking about home and his parents and the things he’s going to need to do to stay alive. His stomach starts to rumble, so he sucks on a piece of beef jerky until it quiets down. He’ll save the raisins.

It gets cold once the sun is down, and he finds himself wishing that he had taken the time to steal the other contestant’s jacket. He huddles up as small as possible and tucks his hands into his armpits. He can smell smoke from somewhere not far away, but he’d rather be cold than dead. He’s not risking it. At least the cold makes it easy to stay awake.

When the sun rises, he eats a quarter of his raisins and then heads down the tree. He doesn’t want to go back to where he left the other contestant, so he gauges about where the stream would probably go and then heads in that direction.

He’s just knelt down to fill his water container when someone drops down on him from the trees. He screams despite himself and tries to roll over and see his attacker. Whoever it is, it’s someone a lot stronger than he is. He doesn’t have much leverage, even with his arms pushing against the ground. He’s forced back down every time he tries to push up, and his face splashes down into the water.

Stiles sputters and struggles but a hand clamps down on the back of his neck, forcing him underwater again. He pushes upwards as hard as he can and manages to break the surface long enough for one deep breath, and then he’s under again. He keeps struggling, almost instinctively, but his mind is starting to break out of the panic. Gears are turning again. He starts counting. At sixty seconds, he lets himself go limp.

Whoever’s holding him isn’t an idiot, because he doesn’t immediately let go. He keeps Stiles’ face underwater until his lungs are burning and spots are appearing in his vision. But he lets go in time, and fortunately for Stiles, drags him out of the water so he can start stripping Stiles of his jacket and belongings. Stiles tries to gasp for air subtly, but it doesn’t work; he’s coughing and panting. The other contestant is too busy searching for his token to care. Stiles can’t get to his knife, but at least he’s on his back now. He slams both his hands over his attacker’s ears, sending him reeling.

In this fight, there’s no room for morals or regret. Higher level thought has been banished to the back corner of his brain. He jumps onto his attacker and jabs two fingers into one of his eyes. The other man screams, so Stiles punches him in the windpipe, leaving him gagging and gasping. That gives Stiles time to scramble to his feet and look around for a weapon. He doesn’t see any rocks, but he _does_ see a branch that had fallen. He grabs it just as the other man is trying to get up, and gives it a solid swing into the man’s jaw. He goes back down, moaning, and Stiles lifts it as high as he can and brings it down hard on the side of his head.

The man doesn’t move. Everything is quiet. Stiles stands there with the branch still held out, panting for breath and crying without realizing it. When nothing else happens, he starts to pick up his belongings. His hands are shaking as he pulls his jacket back on. Then he edges closer to the man on the ground. He wants his jacket, but doesn’t dare get close. What if he’s not dead? What if he’s pretending, the way Stiles had?

Stiles thinks about this for a moment. He’s shivering. The temperature hasn’t gone up much, and now he’s soaking wet. He’s going to need the jacket if he wants to survive. He prods the man with the stick and gets no response. Then he lifts it up and smacks it down hard on a knee. No response. He brings it down again, this time on the groin. Still nothing. He’s either dead or unconscious.

That gives Stiles courage to check for a pulse. He doesn’t feel one. His hands are shaking again, but he strips the man of his jacket and shirt. The token falls out of a jacket pocket as he does so, and he grabs it without thinking. He empties the contents of the man’s pack into his own without looking at them, fills his water bottle, and starts jogging again.

It takes a while for the shaking to stop. He gradually becomes aware that he needs to get himself together. He’s just jogging through the forest like it’s a normal day, but there are still enemies around, and he might not win a second fight. He still hasn’t changed out of his wet clothes.

So he climbs yet another tree. Changes clothes and hangs the wet ones to dry. Waits for his water to purify and eats another piece of beef jerky. Examines what he got from his attacker’s pack. There wasn’t much there. A couple empty food wrappers and some dried apple rings. A compass. A spare pair of socks, which he supposes isn’t nothing.

He eats the apple rings and waits for his clothes to dry. It’s warming up, and the adrenaline has worn off, leaving him drowsy. He has to shake himself awake several times. He needs better shelter. Once his clothes are dry, he tucks the shirt in his bag and ties the second jacket around his waist, descending from the tree. Then he starts through the forest.

He’s been walking about an hour when he comes out in a clearing. There’s a woman on the opposite side of it, carrying a branch that she’s whittled into a spear. They both stop when they see each other, and stare for moment. Stiles sees her hand tighten on the spear. “Wait!” he blurts out, holding up his hands in surrender. “If you want a token, you can have one. I have an extra.”

The woman stares at him, and then her eyes narrow, like she’s looking for the trap. “You’re telling me a scrawny little brat like you got a third token?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Hang on, just – ” He digs it out of his pants pocket, holding it up so she can see. “I’ll trade you. Got any food?”

This clearly wasn’t what the woman was expecting at all, and Stiles waits a few moments while she processes it. Finally, she says, “I have some, yeah.”

“Trade,” Stiles repeats, waving the token in the air. He doesn’t care about her food, but thinks acting like he wants it will make her less suspicious. “We can toss it to each other from opposite sides of the clearing. No muss, no fuss. Okay?”

The woman nods. She opens her own pack and pulls out what looks like a bag of nuts or granola. Stiles counts to three, and throws the token. The bag of granola lands a few feet away and Stiles scrambles to grab it, snatching it off the ground and then jogging away before the other contestant can change her mind.

He’s only been jogging for about a minute when he becomes aware that the woman is following him. Either she wants her food back, or she wants Stiles’ other tokens. Either is possible. Stiles just demonstrated how having spares might help. He speeds up his pace a bit, trying to decide what to do.

Suddenly, he hears a soft _thwip_ and then a thud behind him. He jerks around to see the woman on the ground with a crudely fashioned arrow sticking out of her chest. “Holy shit,” he blurts out, unable to help himself.

“Stay where you are!” The voice that shouts at him is female and harsh. Another contestant jumps down from a tree and jogs over to the body. Stiles does as he’s told, keeping his hands visible for extra safety, while she jerks the dead woman’s pack off and starts going through it. Then she huffs out a curse. When she straightens up, she gives Stiles a cautious eyeballing, like she’s trying to decide if she can get another arrow nocked before he could get to her.

“You can keep the token,” Stiles says, but her wary stance doesn’t change. “Are you hungry?”

The wary look grows warier, but she nods. “Yeah. What was that she tossed you?”

“Some nuts. I have some jerky, too.” Stiles watches her closely. “You must already have two tokens, right? So do I. You want to team up for the rest of the game?”

“Is that allowed?”

Stiles shrugs. “There aren’t really rules to the games, are there? Just ‘stay alive’. You’re hungry; I’ve got food. I haven’t slept in two days and I’d love to have someone to watch my back for a few hours. How about you?”

She nods, then shoulders her bow. “My name’s Allison.”

“I’m Stiles,” he says. He tosses her the bag of nuts.

“What are these?” she asks, looking in the bag.

“They’re nuts,” Stiles says, feeling uncertain.

“I’ve never seen ones like this before,” Allison says, drawing one out of the bag. “All . . . knobbly.”

“Oh, those are walnuts,” Stiles says. He’s starting to relax a little as she starts shoving them into her mouth. The wind stirs the trees and a few drops of rain fall. “We should find shelter.”

Allison nods. Through a mouthful of walnut, she says, “I was down on the shore earlier and I saw something that might be a cave.” She keeps eating, but then continues, “I’ll go first.”

Stiles appreciates that, since she’s the one with the bow and arrow. He shoulders his bag and follows her through the woods. They walk in silence, a reasonable precaution since there are still plenty of people around. It takes about fifteen minutes before they come out of the trees and he sees the ocean. There’s a steep drop off, but it’s only about twenty feet. Allison points to a dark shape about a hundred feet away. “That’s it.”

“Looks good.” Stiles swings himself over the edge of the drop and carefully makes his way down. It’s not easy, but there are plenty of handholds. He takes it slow and makes it without difficulty. Allison follows him down.

The ‘cave’ is more of a crevice, but it’s large enough for one person to lie down and it’s above the water line. It’s wider at the bottom than at the top, so it provides some shelter from the rain. Stiles goes in first, and then Allison crams in after him. The wind is picking up, and it whistles through the rocks. Stiles shivers a little and pulls up the hood of his jacket.

“Do you think we can risk a fire?” Allison asks.

Stiles considers, then shakes his head. “There’s not enough room for the smoke to escape. We’d just wind up choking on it.”

Allison grimaces, but then nods in agreement. “You said you had beef jerky?”

“Yeah.” Stiles gets out his packets and takes out a piece for each of them. Allison hands him what’s left of the nuts. It isn’t much, but he eats it anyway. “So did you make that bow yourself?”

“Uh huh. My pack had some twine in it. It’s a piece of shit, but it got the job done.”

“Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“My dad taught me. We lived in a resistance camp until I was ten, and hunted for our own food.” Allison sucks on her beef jerky meditatively. “Then he got caught and sent to the mines, and I got sent to one of the slave camps.”

“I grew up in one. Barely ever been outside in my life.”

“You’re doing pretty well, considering.”

“I’ve been lucky.”

Allison looks a little dubious, but doesn’t challenge that assertion. Instead, she checks the sky and says, “You should probably sleep now, then I can have a shift. I’d rather both of us be up at night, you know? Just in case?”

Stiles nods. He stretches out and uses the spare jacket as a blanket. “It’ll be hard to tell time with the sun behind the clouds.”

“I’ll watch the tide.” Allison gestures. “Looks like it’s pretty low right now, but I can see where the high water line is. When it reaches that, I’ll wake you.”

“Sounds good.” Stiles tucks himself close to the wall for warmth and is asleep almost immediately. He sleeps like a rock, which surprises him. When Allison wakes him, he feels like he’s actually rested. She curls up in the warmth his body left. He gives her his second jacket, which obviously surprises her, and he shrugs. “Your body temperature drops when you sleep. If I get cold, I’ll do some jumping jacks.”

“Don’t wake me,” she says, and he laughs and agrees.

When the sun sets, tide is going out again. He wakes her up with a gentle shake and asks if she’s hungry. They both are, so he breaks out the beef jerky.

“There’s not much of this left,” Allison says.

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, but we’ve only got about twenty-four hours of the game left.”

Allison looks at the amount of food left in dismay. “You seriously think that will last both of us for an entire day? That’s not even half a meal for one person.”

Stiles frowns at her, more confused than anything else. “Guess you must get more food where you’re from. But then, I’ve survived on half rations for most of my life. It’s why I’m so small.” He starts gnawing on a piece of jerky. “My mom got sick when I was seven. She can’t work, so she doesn’t get chips. We’ve lived off my dad’s ever since I was little. I started working when I was twelve, but I only get half, or I did until I turned eighteen this year.”

“They actually feed us pretty well, I guess,” Allison says. “What camp are you from?”

“Forty-two. It’s a steel mill. I didn’t work in the actual mill, though. I was kind of a janitor – the only person small enough to fit in some of the places that needed cleaning. You?”

“Seventeen.” Allison clears her throat. “It’s a training camp for pleasure slaves.”

“Oh. Well, that probably explains why you got more food than we did. Werewolves aren’t attracted to the scrawny, or so I’ve heard.” Stiles finishes his piece of beef jerky and tucks the rest of it away. “What do they teach you there? Like, dancing and stuff?”

“Dancing, massage, cooking. How to get fucked in the ass and still be able to walk the next day.”

“Sounds educational,” Stiles says.

“I’m probably the only person here who was glad to get sent to the games,” Allison remarks. “I was graduating in three months, and . . . anyway, that’s not enough food. We’ll have to go out tomorrow and find more.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stiles says. “I’m not risking my ass out there.”

Allison’s mouth purses. “So much for teaming up.”

“I’ll watch your back while you sleep, and I’ll share what I have. But we’ve got enough to live, so I’m not risking my life to get more. End of story. Want some raisins?”

Allison gives him a narrow-eyed look, but then sighs. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Stiles carefully divvies up what’s left of the raisins and hands Allison her portion. She eats them slowly, one at a time. “I don’t know if you’re the only person glad to be here, though,” he finally says. “I mean, I’m not _thrilled_ , but . . . it wasn’t like I was going to live a long and healthy life anyway. If I can win, I can get the Bite for my mom . . . get her better. That’s something I’m willing to die fighting for.”

“I can understand that,” Allison says, drawing her knees up to her chest.

“What about you? You mentioned your dad got arrested. Was your mom sent to Seventeen with you?”

“No, she died when I was really young,” Allison says. “She was part of the resistance, too. Got caught, killed herself rather than be interrogated for information on the rest of us.”

“Wow. I’m sorry. That sucks.”

Allison’s lips twitch in a faint smile. “Yeah, it does. After that, my dad and his sister raised me. She’s still out there somewhere, at least in theory. She wasn’t caught during the same raid that got me and my dad, so I guess she’s probably still working hard in the resistance. She, uh.” Allison’s face twists suddenly. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“No, tell me,” Stiles says.

Allison wipes her eyes impatiently. “She always promised me that if I got caught, she’d come get me. For the first few years, I really believed that. I didn’t give up hope until I was thirteen, and I realized that she would never really risk it. Not to save one person. I’m not even sure I can really blame her, now that I’m older and I understand what the risks would be. I just wish she hadn’t _said_ it if she never really planned to _do_ it, you know?”

“Yeah, that was shitty,” Stiles agrees.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this,” Allison adds. “I barely know you.”

“Hey, we’re partners now,” Stiles says, and Allison laughs reluctantly.  “Here, I’ll tell you something real too. You know what the worst thing about my mom’s illness is?” he asks, and Allison shakes her head. “She doesn’t _know_ me anymore. Like, the sickness, it’s gotten to her brain. She’s confused all the time and she doesn’t know who I am anymore. Sometimes she still remembers my dad, but never me. It’s like she never even had a son at all.”

“That’s awful,” Allison says.

“Yeah. It’s like – I know it’s selfish, and I want her to be better for her sake, and my dad’s, but mostly I just want my mom back.” Stiles feels a lump in his throat and swallows it down. “I want her to look at me and know my face. I’d give anything in the world for that. Well, except my dad. Let’s not get too hyperbolic here.”

Allison snorts. “I’d say I’ll root for you, but . . .”

Stiles shrugs. “There have been multiple winners before. It’s rare but it happens. It all depends on what sort of games they put us in. I don’t want to hurt anybody, you know? I will if I have to. If it’s them or me. But I kind of hope we all survive. As many of us as we can.”

“Yeah,” Allison says quietly. “Me too.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of slavery? Although I don't know if that's really necessary on a Hunger Games fusion, but hey, better safe than sorry!

Allison’s so hungry by noon the next day that she’s chewing on the sleeves of her jacket. Stiles lets her have his share of the raisins, even though his own stomach is growling. He’ll be fine. He’s tightened his belt before and will doubtlessly have to do it again.

They talk about a lot of things, waiting in the crevice, watching the tides. They talk about their families, about the places they lived, the things they’ll do if they survive. By the time the gong sounds, Stiles feels like he’s found the sister he’s never had. His mother had gotten pregnant twice after Stiles was born, but miscarried both times. He wonders sometimes if that was an early sign of her illness. Pregnant women and infants are the only people in the slave camps who get medical care. The werewolves know that the humans need to keep breeding, to make more slaves.

“So how do you think they watch us?” Allison asks, as they start walking. They’re both hoping they can just follow the beach all the way around, and not have to climb the cliffs.

“The Druids must have something to do with it,” Stiles says, glancing around. “I didn’t see any electronics on the island at all. I mean, I don’t know exactly what it would look like – I’ve never seen a camera in my life – but I think I would get the general idea.”

“That makes sense,” Allison says, nodding. “Have you ever met a Druid?”

“Nope. You?”

“No. My dad did, though, way back when. He said he got away by the skin of his teeth. Sometimes I think my dad hated Druids more than he hated werewolves.”

“Why?”

“Well, because Druids are still human, but they sided with the werewolves in the war.”

Stiles thinks that over, thinks to some of the books that he had read. “I dunno. My dad said his grandmother used to tell him stories about the war, and he said that the Druids wanted to help the humans, but the humans were afraid of them. Because they were different. Just like the werewolves.” He shrugs a little. “Guess we’ll probably never know for sure.”

“Yeah.” Allison sighs. “But they’ve chosen their side now.”

“That’s true.” Stiles climbs up onto a rock outcropping that’s in their path and then turns to give Allison a hand. “Hey, I can see the beach.”

“Thank God.” Allison is clearly hoping that there will be food there.

There isn’t. But there are a handful of werewolves, who are taking tokens from the contestants and then drawing an ‘X’ on their hands in black ink. The gong sounds again, signifying that an hour has gone by, and they start herding them back onto the ships. Allison sees the inner compartments and groans, before curling up and trying to sleep.

It’s almost an hour before they make it to shore, and then they’re put on another train. This one doesn’t go as far as the first one had, and barely an hour later, they’re being ushered out of the compartment and towards a huge building made of brick and white stone. There are some boarded up windows and a sign that looks like it had fallen down a century ago. The text reads ‘Macy’s’, and Stiles wonders who Macy is, or was.

They go in through the doors to find one of the largest rooms Stiles has ever been in. He thinks that it might even be bigger than the mill floor, where hundreds of people work. The floor is pale gray, some kind of fake tile made of a material he doesn’t recognize. It’s been scuffed in the main lines of traffic to a worn, darker gray.

There are cots along one wall, set up at about six foot intervals. Each one has a number hung above it, starting with ‘seven’ and going up to ‘two hundred thirteen’, skipping at what seems like random. Stiles sees seventeen and forty-two and realizes that it’s the numbers of the people left. “No privacy here,” he says to Allison, who snorts as if to say she has no idea why he would expect such a thing.

Each cot has a little chest of drawers next to it. Stiles is about to go over to see if there’s anything inside, but instead they’re herded towards long wooden tables instead. There are benches rather than individual chairs, each one holding about four people. Stiles catches the first whiff of food and actually moans. He can feel his mouth start to water.

He’s surprised to see that there are humans here to do the serving. He supposes that makes sense. The slaves in the camps are for manufacturing, or tending fields and livestock. But the werewolves having their own personal slaves isn’t really surprising. They don’t make eye contact as they set down the plates of food, and at the moment, Stiles frankly doesn’t care. There’s a plate with some sort of meat and two hunks of bread and something green and he hasn’t even identified half of it before he’s shoveling it into his mouth. Up and down the table, everyone is doing the same thing. They have cups of water, as well. He drinks three and licks his plate clean.

The lights start to dim as the contestants finish eating. The obvious message is that it’s time for them to sleep. Stiles has no argument with that. He staggers over to the cot labeled ‘forty-two’ and is asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sleeps like the semi-metaphorical dead. He jerks awake when a gong sounds, and falls off his cot. Nobody notices, because they’re all wrestling with consciousness themselves. He manages to get to his feet as the lights are coming up. “This way!” someone is shouting, and he staggers into the line for what turns out to be the bathroom and the shower. They’re communal, but he’s far too tired and hungry to care about ogling anyone. Most of the others seem to be thinking the same thing.

When they get back to the main room, there’s food there. It’s different from the night before, where each of them had received their own plate. This time there are empty plates, and communal dishes. Stiles grabs a plate, but when he heads for what looks like the eggs, one of the older, larger contestants shoves him away. “Kids at the back of the line,” he says.

“Uh, what?” Stiles asks, and tries to get to the eggs again. This time he’s shoved away by two contestants at once.

So it’s going to be like that. Stiles considers for a moment before he decides not to fight, at least not at the moment.

It makes sense. They’re not in the middle of a game right at this moment, but this is still a competition. The larger, stronger contestants will bully the weaker ones out of food or whatever else they might get, in order to keep it for themselves. That might create opportunities for them later. It’s a dickish thing to do, especially considering that nobody asked to be here, but Stiles can understand why they’re doing it. There can only be one winner – most of the time, at least. Stiles has heard that there have been two or three in some of the previous years. It all depends on what kind of games the werewolves put together. If the final game is something one-on-one, like a tournament, there will be one winner. But if it’s a survival game, like the one on the island, there could be more.

As far as Stiles knows, from the little they’re told, the games will continue until they’ve reduced the number of contestants to a dozen or fewer. That triggers the final game. He has no idea how the werewolves choose what the games will be, or what order they’ll go in.

Thinking about it isn’t getting him any closer to breakfast, so he heads over to where there are cups and pitchers of water. He doesn’t know how long they’ll get between the games. He knows that they last a couple months, and from the ‘highlights’ they get, he thinks there are usually only about ten rounds. That means they should have several days to rest and recover between each one.

There’s a group of teenagers standing around the water, having been bullied away from breakfast. Surprisingly, Stiles finds he isn’t the smallest one there. Allison has an inch on him, but there’s another girl who’s shorter, although she has a strong, wiry look to her. The two girls are standing there with two other boys, and they’re all casting spiteful glares at the adults who won’t let them near the food.

Allison’s clearly already been chatting with them, because she says, “Oh, this is Stiles. Stiles, this is Theo, Donovan, and Tracy.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, with a nod. It looks like they’re the only teenagers left, which isn’t too surprising. There are about a hundred cots, it looks like, and he’s pretty sure there are well over two hundred camps. At least half of the contestants are already dead.

They chat for a few minutes. Tracy is the youngest, only sixteen, but she’s from a mining camp and obviously tough as nails. Theo and Donovan are both seventeen, and Stiles takes a dislike to both of them immediately. Donovan is bragging about how he killed _three_ different people during the first game, even though he didn’t need to. Theo is directly opposite, saying nothing about himself but encouraging the others to talk, obviously gathering intelligence. Stiles has been part of the conversation for fewer than three minutes before he decides that none of these people are going to be his friends.

“So what should we do about food?” Tracy asks, a glint in her eye like she’s considering murdering a contestant and eating them.

Stiles has been watching the older contestants scraping the bottom of the dishes, making it clear that even if there’s enough for everybody, they don’t plan on sharing. “I don’t think we can do anything this time. We’ll have to push our way through next time. If we all do it together, we should be able to steal at least one dish.”

The others don’t like it, but they don’t have any better ideas. Theo smiles at Allison and says, “So how did you get your second token?”

Stiles has to admit to a wave of annoyance at Theo’s prying, but he doesn’t want to say anything. Allison will either deal with it or she won’t. Apparently she realizes what he’s doing, because she gives an embarrassed laugh and says, “I, uh, I took it off a dead body, actually. I guess he managed to get away from whoever injured him but then died anyway.”

“Oh,” Theo says, and loses interest. Allison rolls her eyes and little and walks back towards her cot. Stiles follows her, giving the others a wave.

“What a jackass,” Allison says, and Stiles flops down on his cot, laughing so hard his sides hurt.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is bored out of his mind by the time they’ve been in the camp for an hour. He’s never had so much free time in his life. He starts pestering the guards for paper and pencils so they can play Hangman or Tic-Tac-Toe or _anything_ if it will get him to be less bored. He asks for books or jacks or stones so they can play go or checkers. He’s so persistent about it that the guards start to threaten to beat the shit out of him if it would keep him occupied.

Stiles thinks about that for about an hour, then grab Allison and tells her that he’s going to teach her some of the work songs from his camp. He sings loudly and off-key while she tries not to giggle. Four minutes later, he has a stack of paper and pencils.

They manage to waste time until dinner shows up. Stiles has volunteered to be the diversion, mainly because he wants to be sure Allison gets to eat. He can go a day without food if he has to. He had stuffed his face at dinner the night before, so honestly he’s not even that hungry yet. So when the dishes come out, bowls full of some dish with pasta and tomatoes, Stiles queues up with the rest of the contestants.

“I thought we made it clear that you guys needed to wait until the rest of us had eaten,” the ringleader says, giving him a shove.

“Yeah, you did,” Stiles says. “But that’s not gonna work out if you don’t let us eat at all. Hey, what’s your name, buddy?”

“It’s none of your business,” the man sneers.

“Ohhhhhkay,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “But seriously, you can’t hoard all the food. We need to eat, too.”

“What are you going to do? Go cry to the werewolves about it?” The man shoves him again, and then turns his back to start serving himself.

“I was thinking something like this,” Stiles says, picking up a fork and slamming it into the man’s back. The man yelps in pain, turning and backhanding Stiles so hard that he goes sprawling.

It only takes a few moments for the werewolf guards to intervene, and at least one of them is chuckling as they pull the ringleader off Stiles and shove him back towards the food. “You see that?” the laughing werewolf asks one of his friends. “Like a Chihuahua attacking a Rottweiler. You stupid, kid?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rubbing his jaw. “That’s me.”

They leave him there on the floor. He shakes off the hit and sits up. He’s taken worse at the mill. After a few moments, he manages to get to his feet and heads over to where Allison and the others have huddled in a corner. During the commotion, it had been no trouble for them to grab one of the dishes for themselves.

When Stiles walks over and starts to sit down, Donovan grabs the dish and pulls it away from him. “Who said you got to eat?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Stiles says. “You wouldn’t have that food if I hadn’t done my part.”

Donovan shrugs. “Not my problem, pal.”

“For fuck’s sake, Donovan,” Allison says. “If you don’t let Stiles eat, I will smother you in your sleep.”

“Dream on, pretty girl,” Donovan tells her.

“Come on, Donovan, don’t be a dick,” Theo says.

Stiles resists the urge to tell Theo that he doesn’t need his help. He sits down and grabs for the dish of food. When Donovan pulls it away again, Allison picks up her plate and slams it into his face. He reels backwards, moaning.

“Thanks, Ally,” Stiles says, grabbing the dish and helping himself.

“That’s what friends are for,” she says, grinning at him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When they get up the next morning, after breakfast – which nobody gives the teenagers any trouble about eating – they’re herded back out of the barracks and through some sort of magical portal. They come out onto a large plain, facing a stone wall that’s too high to see over. Stiles looks around in interest. He’s been sure for a while that the Druids are responsible for a lot of what goes on in the games, and this confirms it.

If they don’t need a lot of travel time between games, he needs to revise his opinion on how many rounds there will be. There could be twelve or even fifteen in the time span the games last. He sees his chances of survival dwindling, but squares his jaw anyway. Survive no matter what, his father had said, and he intends to give it his best shot.

“Round two will now begin!” the werewolf shouts, and a buzz of tension goes through the ranks. The werewolf points as a door opens in the stone wall, displaying a dirt path and dense greenery. “This arena has been stocked with the most dangerous animals left in the world! Your goal is to find one and bring one back here! It does not matter if you come back with one that is dead or alive! You will go in at five minute intervals and you will have one hour!”

“Could be worse,” someone near Stiles mutters, and he agrees. He’ll find a bug or something.

“However!” the werewolf continues, and the crowd tightens up again. “You will not only be judged on your completion of the task at hand! If you do well in this game, you will attract sponsors! Having a werewolf sponsor you in the games is the highest of honors! To be chosen is extremely rare, but guarantees that you will survive longer than many of the other contestants! If you do well in this task, you could have that honor!”

“Fuck off,” Stiles mutters. He has zero interest in being ‘chosen’ by a werewolf, for this or any other reason.

The first number is called. “One hundred twenty-five!”

After the first six numbers don’t include him, Stiles sits down in the dirt and waits. Of course, as soon as he’s done that, his number is called. He jogs into the arena. It’s densely packed with bright greenery, and the mud squelches underneath his feet. He tries to remember the name for this kind of terrain, which he thinks he’s read about. It probably doesn’t exist naturally anymore.

Just as he’s entering, he passes someone leaving. The woman is carrying a snake longer than Stiles is tall. “Nice,” Stiles says with a nod, and the woman scowls and ignores him. Stiles sighs and continues jogging. He can feel the skin on the back of his neck prickling, like he’s being watched. It wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest if he was. The animals here are hunting him, just as surely as he’s hunting them. He wants to make this as quick as possible.

Up ahead and just off the path, he sees movement. He freezes for a moment, then inches closer. There are two birds, carrion birds of some kind, crouched over something. Stiles looks around and then carefully leans over to pick a rock up off the ground. He throws it as hard as he can. It lands a glancing blow off one of the birds, which lets out a squawk. Both of them take to the sky, and Stiles curses. He knows his aim isn’t great, but he had hoped that it wouldn’t be able to fly afterwards.

Then it occurs to him to check and see what they were eating. He trots over to see the remains of something unrecognizable. It might have been a rabbit or a groundhog or one of a dozen different rodents. He’s about to start walking again when he thinks back to their instructions. The werewolf had said a dead animal was okay. Of course, that was working under the assumption that the contestant would have killed it, but he hadn’t said the contestant _had_ to have killed it. Just that their catch could be dead or alive.

That considered, he picks up what’s left of the animal and jogs back towards the entrance. It takes about ten minutes to get there, and there are still contestants waiting to be called. The two werewolves responsible for keeping things moving are standing next to a dead boar that probably weighs more than Stiles.

“Here you go,” Stiles says, extending the dead animal to them.

They look down at it, then back at him. “The fuck is that?” one of them asks.

“It’s a dead animal, as requested.”

“That thing has been dead for days.”

Stiles shrugs. “So what? You didn’t say it had to be freshly dead. Just that it could be dead or alive.”

There are titters from some of the nearby contestants. Stiles glances around and sees Allison trying not to laugh.

“You can’t just . . .” the first werewolf says, but he trails off and looks at the second for confirmation. The second just shrugs. After another moment, the first grabs the dead animal and then snarls, “Fine. But don’t expect to get any sponsors out of this.”

“Your sponsors can kiss the fattest part of my ass,” Stiles says, and now the other contestants are really laughing. One of the werewolves hits him, sending him staggering to land on his ass in the dirt. He rolls slightly and then spits blood out of his mouth.

“One hundred thirteen!” the second werewolf shouts, obviously trying to divert attention off of Stiles, and shoves a contestant towards the forest.

Allison crouches beside Stiles. “You okay?”

He rubs his jaw. “Yeah, I’ll make it.”

“Was it worth it?” Allison asks, her eyes twinkling like she already knows what Stiles is going to say.

“Hell yes,” he says, and she laughs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So we specifically tell them that they’re trying to impress sponsors, right?” is what Ennis is saying as Peter enters the bar. “Talk it up about what they’ll get if they snag one, make it sound like hardly anybody does. So the first one drags in this poisonous snake and the next guy has an entire fucking boar, you get the fucking idea.”

“Charming as always,” Peter murmurs, stepping up to the bar and gesturing to the bartender for a drink. “Whiskey.”

“Then the kid from forty-two walks in with some half-chewed up _rodent_ ,” Ennis continues, and Peter glances over, interested. “It’s clearly been dead for a week. He holds it up and presents it like he’s proud of it. And when I called him on it, he just shrugged and said ‘you didn’t say it had to be alive when I found it’.”

Peter smirks into his drink. “Seems like a sound strategy.”

“Nobody asked you, Hale,” Ennis growls at him. “I don’t like cheaters in the games.”

“He didn’t cheat. He exploited a loophole. It’s not the same thing.”

“You’d know,” Ennis retorts.

“Thinking you’ve found someone to sponsor this year, Hale?” Ethan asks, looking over from his own drink.

Peter shrugs. He doesn’t plan on sponsoring a contestant; he never does. Ennis, of course, can’t resist making a comment about it. “Yeah, he seems like your type, Hale. Not afraid to show off how weak he is. Ignores the rules and behaves like a brat. Don’t worry, though, there’s no way that he’ll survive the next game.”

“Is that so?” Peter sees an opportunity. “Would you care to wager?”

Ennis snorts. “I’ll take that bet.”

“Okay. If he survives the third game, Laura gets a week free from omega duties. If he dies, I’ll serve as omega along with her. Deal?”

There’s a pause while Ennis rolls that around in his brain. “Deal.”

They shake on it, and Peter knocks back his short of whiskey. Then he leaves the bar, heading for the game headquarters. It’s too late in the day for any of the bigshots to be there; there are a few betas and one of the Druids still hanging out. “I’m thinking about sponsoring forty-two,” he says to the Druid, and the werewolves snicker. “Can I see his reel from the first game?”

“Sure,” the Druid says, waving him into one of the inner rooms. It’s dark there, and the Druid comes in carrying a set of crystals. “Forty-two, forty-two,” he murmurs to himself, holding each crystal up to the room’s small light source and looking through. “Here we go. You want the whole thing?”

“I don’t plan to sit here for seventy-two hours, so I’ll pass on that,” Peter says.

The Druid looks amused. “I’ll queue it up to the parts where he’s on the move, then.”

Peter nods and waits. His first look at forty-two proves that the young man isn’t what he had expected, although he supposes that it explains Ennis’ attitude. He’s on the small side for a human, not so much short – although he is that – as stick thin. But there’s something about him that strikes Peter, even in the footage that the crystal is casting on the wall. It’s in the set of his shoulders and jaw, the determination that somehow permeates his being.

Peter watches in interest, cataloguing the contestant’s decision. Grabbing the first bag he sees: good. Finding shelter before unpacking: good. The trap he sets: iffy. Peter would have waited in the tree, would have preferred to take the high ground. But his actions in the fight demonstrate that even if he isn’t strong, he knows how to use his strength to his advantage.

He’s ruthless, too, and Peter takes note of that with interest and – he to admit – a little bit of lust. The figure in the projection is a kindred spirit. Willing to do anything it takes, to be as brutal as he has to be, to win. But not unnecessarily so. Peter watches as he tries to bargain his way out of a third fight, and then sets up an alliance with the archer girl. Because he’s a good person? Or because he’s smart? Or maybe even both.

“You want to see the second game?” the Druid asks.

“No, I heard the account of it from Ennis,” Peter says. He thanks the Druid and then heads back to the den.

Cora and Derek are both asleep, curled up in the bed at the back of the den, but Laura is still up. She glances up as he comes in. “You’re later than usual,” she says. It’s not a reprimand, just an expression of curiosity.

“I went to see how the games were going.”

“Thank you,” Laura says.

Peter just nods. Laura knows why he does what he does, and it’s enough for him that she genuinely appreciates it. “There’s a contestant I might sponsor. He’s quick, clever. The others don’t think much of him. But if he can survive even a few rounds, I might be able to use it to my advantage. Ennis has already bet me that he won’t survive the third.”

“Ugh. Ennis,” Laura sums up her feelings concisely. “What was the wager for?”

“If I win, you get a week off omega duties. If I lose, I’ll serve them with you.”

Laura’s eyes go a little wide. “You didn’t have to – ”

Peter waves this aside. “Listen, Laura. If I sponsor him, I can get a hefty wager out of it, maybe even from Duke himself. But if I weigh your position as the Omega of Alphas, we’re going to have to put up something of worth in return.”

“Such as?” Laura asks.

“The pack,” Peter says, and Laura winces. “Deucalion never wanted to allow you three to be kept together, you know that. It was only because Talia had gone to meticulous trouble to make sure there was no way I could be implicated that I was able to take you in. They’d be happier if the pack was dissolved. Marry you off to some other alpha – Aiden, maybe. They’d send Cora to the rings – she’d be fine there, honestly – and keep me around as an omega. Not sure what they would do about Derek. Maybe send him to the rings, too. Or maybe force another pack to take him.”

Laura lets out a breath. “Do you think he can win? This guy you’ve got your eye on.”

“I don’t know. I’ll watch him in the third game before I make a decision.”

“Okay. Just . . . if you take that risk, it had better be worth it.”

Peter nods. “I’ll be sure.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right, time to get our boys into the same room!

 

Three days later, the contestants are herded into a line and led through another portal. They come out into a desert, and are herded into a circle around a large pit. Stiles looks down to see an interesting tableau. On one side of the pit, there’s a set of stairs down, and a table full of weapons: swords, clubs, even a mace. On the other side, there’s a table full of tokens, the same kind they had on the island, but no stairs.

Between the two is a monster twice as large as the biggest werewolf Stiles has ever seen. It looks like it’s made entirely from rock, and is standing completely still, like a statue. “The fuck is that thing?” Allison murmurs, and Stiles glances over at her. There are still four people between them, so they can’t really talk.

“Round three will now begin!” the werewolf in charge, who Stiles has given all sorts of unappealing nicknames, shouts. “Contestants will fight the golem one at a time! You will begin at the table of weapons. After you choose your weapon, you must get to the other side of the arena and pick up your token. Once you have your token, a portal will open for you to use to exit the arena.”

The female werewolf steps up beside him, with her usual bag of numbers. “Ninety-three!”

One of the contestants steps forward, looking a little paler than usual. He climbs down the stairs slowly and looks over the table. Hands visibly shaking, he picks up a sword.

No sooner has he touched it than green light flares in the golem’s eye sockets, and it charges forward with a bellow. Stiles sucks in a breath as it slams a heavy stone arm into the contestant’s midsection. He hits the wall hard and slides down in gruesome slow motion. The gong sounds. The golem resumes its place in the center of the arena, and goes dormant.

“Holy shit,” the contestant next to Stiles breathes out, and Stiles has to agree. How is he supposed to fight that thing? There’s no way.

“One hundred ninety-four!”

The next contestant is the ringleader from the barracks. Stiles has learned his name is Brunski, and he’s from a forestry camp. He looks like it, and Stiles isn’t surprised to see what he picks up is an axe. The golem comes to life again, lurching forward. Brunski is fast, though, faster than Stiles would have expected from someone so large. He ducks the golem’s first hit and slams the axe into its knee. The blow is strong enough to crumble the stone, and the golem staggers to one side. Brunski pivots and smashes the axe into its side, and it goes down in a heap, leaving Brunski free to run past it and grab his token. There’s a smattering of cheers from the contestants, which Stiles contributes to. He doesn’t like Brunski, but he’s still happy to see that the golem is defeatable. It also apparently regenerates, the crumbled rocks reforming into the monster after Brunski leaves the arena.

“Two hundred six!”

The fights continue. Stiles watches each one, not sitting down to wait this time, looking for any sort of weakness in the creature. He remembers what his father had said, that he’s quick, and that’s going to be important. The golem is strong, and huge, but it’s slow. That’s how Allison defeats it. She’s the seventh contestant called, and the weapon she grabs is a slingshot. The force behind the rock she launches at the golem doesn’t damage it, but it does send it staggering, and it can’t regain its balance quickly enough to catch her. She darts past it, grabs her token, and is out of the arena before it can catch her.

Overall, however, the golem is winning. Stiles can see that this is a game meant to clear the field of the opponents who can’t fight, and it doesn’t bode well for him. There are about a hundred contestants left at this point, and there are going to be fewer than fifty when this is over.

The waiting is hard. The longer he waits, the more contestants smashed into pulp by the golem, the more his hands start to shake. It doesn’t help that the arena isn’t cleared. Dead bodies are starting to litter the ground, posing more obstacles. Stiles tries to regulate his breathing, tries to stay calm, remembers what his father had said. He can’t die here. No matter what, he has to survive.

Contestant thirty-nine, the one next to him, is called. Stiles watches her hands hover over the table of weapons, reaching for one, then another. The werewolf guards start to jeer at her, egging her on. But the golem doesn’t move, not until she’s finally grabbed a mace. Then it goes for her. She manages to get enough momentum behind the mace to knock aside the arm that reaches for her, but can’t avoid the second blow.

“Wait a second,” Stiles mutters, frowning a little as the golem settles back into the center of the ring. Can it be that simple? Could he really –

“Forty-two!”

Stiles whimpers a little despite himself, but he hears Allison shout, “You can do it, Stiles!” and he manages to gather himself enough to go down the stairs. He looks over the table of weapons. Looks at the golem. It’s not moving. He takes a cautious step forward, past the table. It still doesn’t move. The werewolves are shouting at him, urging him to fight, but he ignores them. He takes another step, and the golem still doesn’t move. He shuffles to the side slowly, waiting for it to come to life, but it doesn’t, so he presses his back to the wall and edges around it. The contestants have gone silent, watching him as he creeps over to the table and grabs his token.

“What the fuck was that?” the werewolf in charge says, as the portal opens up. Stiles steps through it and faces him. The werewolf grabs his shoulder in a painful grip. “What the fuck was that!”

“The golem doesn’t come to life unless you touch one of the weapons,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “So I didn’t.”

“You can’t just – you were supposed to choose a weapon!” the werewolf snarls.

“Well, the weapon I chose was my brain and my powers of observation,” Stiles replies. “You didn’t say in the instructions that I had to fight. Just that I had to get past it and get my token. So that’s what I did.”

“Now all the other contestants will do the same thing,” the female werewolf snaps at him.

Stiles shrugs and says, “Then I wish I had gotten called a lot earlier.”

“The fuck are we gonna do with this kid, Ennis?” one of the guards asks, and he’s obviously trying not to laugh.

In response, Ennis gives Stiles a solid shove. He stumbles backwards, feeling empty air behind him, and only barely manages to protect his head before he lands hard on the floor of the pit. “Fight!” Ennis roars at him.

Stiles manages to climb to his feet, folds his arms over his chest, and says, “No.”

Ennis turns to the woman standing behind him, who’s been silent during this exchange. “Make the God damned golem come to life so he has to fight the thing!”

She shakes her head, and says in an even tone, “Contestant forty-two successfully completed the game, by the rules that were set down. The trial is over. The remaining contestants will proceed on to the fourth game.” She turns away and waves a hand, opening a portal. The other two werewolves, seeing that she isn’t going to change her mind, start ushering the contestants through. Stiles, seeing that no one is going to get him out of the pit, walks to the other side – still giving the golem a wide berth, just in case – and up the stairs.

“That was amazing,” Allison says, laughing as they file back into the barracks.

Stiles is about to reply when he’s roughly shoved to the ground. “Fucking coward,” Brunski says, and spits on him before going past. One of the other contestants lands a kick in his ribs as he walks by.

“What’s their problem?” Theo asks, offering Stiles a hand up. Stiles takes it, even though he’s not Theo’s biggest fan. “You just saved like, thirty of us from having to fight that thing.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t save the two of them,” Stiles says, and shrugs. “They had to fight it, and I didn’t. So they probably feel like I cheated. They’ll keep me from eating for a couple days and then get over it.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Theo says, and gives him a shove that’s more playful. “You’re nuts, though, I hope you know that.”

“Well aware,” Stiles says, with a sloppy salute. “Thanks.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Peter enters game headquarters to see whether or not he’s going to spend the next week licking boots, Ennis is shouting, which bodes well for him. “It doesn’t fucking count!” Ennis roars.

“Oh my God, get over it,” Ethan says, rolling his eyes and pouring himself and his twin another drink.

“He didn’t fucking fight the golem so it doesn’t fucking count!” Ennis is clearly in a fury, in his partially shifted form, fangs bared. “That bitch helped him cheat!”

“Ennis,” Deucalion says, his tone mild but a warning in his voice. “Please watch your tone when discussing my wife.”

Ennis pales a little, but doesn’t back down. “He was supposed to fight the golem.”

“Yes, Marin told me. The golem had been enspelled to attack once the contestant chose a weapon.” Deucalion glances up as Peter walks over to the group. “Granted, it was a bit of an oversight that we didn’t consider that a contestant might not choose a weapon, but that doesn’t change the fact that by the rules of the game, he won.”

Peter listens to this in interest, and can’t stop a smirk from spreading on his face. “That wouldn’t be forty-two you’re talking about, would it?”

“Shut it, Hale,” Ennis says. “It doesn’t fucking count.”

“Oh, really?” Peter draws the word out. “Are you thinking about backing out on me?”

Ennis turns and snarls at him. “I’m not a fucking welsher, you piece of shit. But he didn’t fight, so it doesn’t count.”

“Did you two have a wager?” Deucalion asks, interested.

“Hale is thinking about sponsoring forty-two,” Aiden says, snickering into his glass. “For some reason.”

“And Ennis bet me that he wouldn’t survive the third round,” Peter says, picking the whiskey bottle up off the twins’ table. “Which it seems that he did. I don’t recall specifying _how_ he was to do so when we made the bet, Ennis.”

Ennis’ jaw tightens, and he spits out, “Fine.”

“What was the wager?” Deucalion asks.

“For Laura to get a week off from the ass-kissing you and your fellows insist on,” Peter says.

Ennis cuffs him upside the head. “That’s the Alpha of Alphas you’re talking to. Show some God damned respect.”

Peter resists the urge to say that he is currently demonstrating every ounce of respect for Deucalion that he possesses. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, Duke. Is Ennis even authorized to make that sort of wager without checking it with you first?”

Ennis’ scowl deepens, and Deucalion chuckles. “For one week, I think I can let that go.”

“Of course,” Peter says, sipping his whiskey. “It’s not like he wagered Laura’s actual _position_ as Omega of Alphas. That’s the sort of wager I would have to make with you. For example, if I decided to actually sponsor forty-two.”

Deucalion arches an eyebrow at him. “That would be one hell of a wager, given that we’re only three games in.”

Ennis snorts and adds, “And it’s not like he can survive the fourth.”

“This from the man who said he wouldn’t survive the third,” Peter says, and smirks. “I like him. He’s clever. So how about it, Duke?”

Deucalion seems to think about it for a few moments. Then he smiles. “Okay. You sponsor forty-two. If he wins, he and his family can join your pack. That will lift Laura out of the position of Omega of Alphas. And if he loses, your pack gets disbanded. Talia’s children will be sent to the rings, and you, Peter, will be omega in my pack.”

Peter manages to keep the grimace off his face. It’s a worse deal than he would have preferred to make. “I’m training Derek to help with the camps.”

“Then let’s hope he survives the rings.”

“Fair enough. But I’m surprised you want me in your pack, Deucalion. I’ll make a terrible omega.”

Deucalion shrugs. “You’ve spent the last five years making yourself indispensable. We all know it, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. I can’t send you to the rings, or kill you outright. Which means that eventually I’m going to have to find something to do with you. This affords us both an opportunity. Forty-two might have conned and bluffed his way through a couple of games. But there are still a lot of games to go.”

“And I plan on making sure he survives every single one,” Peter says.

Deucalion lifts his glass and says, “The wager is on, then.”

“Agreed.” Peter knocks his glass against Deucalion’s and downs the shot. “Now if you don’t mind, it seems that I have some work to do.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Forty-two!” Ennis’ voice shouts from the cavernous room’s entrance, and Stiles’ head snaps up. They don’t do games separately. Why is he being called? “Sixty-four!” the voice shouts again, and he relaxes a little. At least it’s not just him. The werewolf calls out a dozen other people, and they all head to the room’s entrance. He recognizes most of the others, including Brunski. They’re among the largest and the strongest of the contestants. If he’s out of place in the general games, here he sticks out like even more of a sore thumb.

“Follow me,” Ennis says, sounding a little surly, and they all glance at other but do as they’re told. Stiles decides against asking where they’re going. He exchanges a little wave with Allison, who looks concerned, before heading out into a courtyard. It’s his first glimpse of the werewolf complex as a whole, and he looks around, interested. The floor is some kind of tile, and he can see an alley or corridor ahead of him, which forks a little ways ahead. Instead of doors, there are periodic openings about ten or fifteen feet wide, most of which are draped with fabric or bead curtains. The sky above them is open, but it clearly used to be covered, and the remains of the roof are strewn around in decay. Werewolves co-exist with nature, and it, along with them, has taken over whatever this place used to be.

“You have been chosen by sponsors!” Ennis shouts, and Stiles blinks at him in complete surprise. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but _that_ certainly wasn’t it. He goes on to talk about what an honor it is and all the same bullshit that he had been talking about before sending them into the second game. Stiles resists the urge to point to himself and ask if the werewolf is sure he’s got the right person.

He’s still vaguely wondering that when a werewolf detaches from the crowd and saunters over as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s taller than Stiles, but not a lot more heavy. Stiles has grown used to the muscled behemoth werewolves that he always sees, and wonders what this guy’s deal is. Regardless, he’s more attractive than Stiles considers fair. He’s got brown hair cropped fairly short, and generous stubble on his chin that Stiles, for some Godforsaken reason, really wants to rub his face on. He chalks it up to stress. It’s been a hell of a long week.

“You must be forty-two,” the man says.

“My name is Stiles,” he retorts automatically, and then winces a little, preparing himself for the bitch slap.

It doesn’t come. The werewolf just nods a little and says, “Okay, Stiles. My name is Peter Hale.”

“Uh, nice to meet you, I guess,” Stiles says.

Peter smiles, a smile that shows teeth. “You’ve never thought it was nice to meet a werewolf in your life, and I don’t blame you. Walk with me.”

That _definitely_ wasn’t what Stiles was expecting. Peter turns and starts down the alley, and Stiles hastens to catch up with him. “I can just - walk away from the guards and everything?”

“As long as you’re with me. I wouldn’t try it on your own.”

“Good to know.” Stiles is glad to see that Peter isn’t one of those people who walks so quickly that Stiles has to trot to keep up. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that we can talk in private.” Peter gestures to their surroundings and says, “There are a lot of ears here. And believe it or not, there is a fair amount of strategy involved in this - at least when I’m involved - so I don’t want anyone overhearing us.”

“Oh. Okay.” Stiles notices a railing as they come to the fork, and looks over to see that the building has two stories, both of them looking relatively similar. They’re on the second floor.

Peter sees his curiosity and says, “This used to be a human marketplace. Werewolves like to live in proximity, in communities. We have our own dens,” he adds, gesturing to the curtained off areas, “but they tend to be much closer to each other than human houses would be.”

“Why didn’t you just take over apartment buildings?” Stiles asks.

“Height. Werewolves don’t like heights. We’re creatures of the earth. Even a two story building makes some uncomfortable - the lower class werewolves, so to speak, are the ones made to live on the second floor. Apartment buildings tend to be tall, but not wide. This allowed us to sprawl.”

“I’ll take your word on it,” Stiles says. “It’s not like I’ve ever seen one. Although I guess you weren’t around back then, either.” It’s hard to judge Peter’s age. He looks like he’s maybe a decade older than Stiles, definitely younger than Stiles’ father. But he’s heard that werewolves age differently, slower. Maybe that’s just because they don’t have to work the way the humans do.

Peter seems amused. He goes down a narrow hallway and then through a doorway, which leads to a flight of stairs. That ends in another doorway, and they go out to find themselves on the roof.

Stiles stares around in wonder, unable to help himself. Beyond the settlement’s main building, there are others scattered, something of a tent city that spreads at least a mile outward. After that, it’s desolation as far as the eye can see. Scorched earth and rock. Not even a withered old tree. He had come through it, on their way from the first trial, but being able to see how far it spreads - it’s amazing.

He snaps back to himself as the door shuts behind him. “I thought werewolves don’t like heights.”

“We don’t,” Peter says, sitting down on a vent that juts out of the roof, some kind of abandoned heating or cooling unit. “That’s why I like to come up here. It guarantees privacy. Which is something you’re hard pressed to find here.”

Stiles nods a little and eyes Peter warily. “So . . . you’re my sponsor.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m betting on you to win the games, and I want to help you do it. That means I can get you extra rations. I can provide medical care. You know, if someone finishes a game but can’t compete in the next because of injury, they’re disqualified. As long as you have me, I can make sure you’re fit to compete in the next game. I also have some limited knowledge of what each game will be, so we can plan strategy ahead of time.”

“Oh. Wow. Okay.” Stiles considers all this. “So that guy Ennis wasn’t bullshitting when he said this is important.”

“No. He was not. In the eighteen years of the game, only two of the winners haven’t had sponsors. It’s an enormous advantage.”

“So why would you pick me?” Stiles asks, giving Peter the side eye. “Everyone seemed to think that I’m a wimp.”

“You are,” Peter says, with a smirk that - well, to be honest, it _does things_ to Stiles. Enough that he doesn’t immediately take exception to the insult. “You’re probably one of the physically smallest and weakest candidates we’ve ever had. And you’re definitely the weakest candidate to have ever survived _three games_. Which begs the question of what, exactly, qualifies as strength.”

“Okay . . .” Stiles mulls this over. “So are all werewolves as pompous and self-important as you?”

Peter arches an eyebrow, but then surprises him by laughing. “No. That’s just me, I’m afraid.”

“Super. So, uh.” Stiles looks around. “What now?”

“The fourth game is going to be one-on-one combat with another contestant,” Peter says, and sees Stiles cringe. “Which means that I have two or three hours to teach you how to survive that, which means I’m going to teach you every low-down dirty trick in the fighting handbook.”

Stiles perks up. That sounds more like his style. Then something occurs to him. “How much of the games do you guys watch?”

“If it’s a fighting game, like the last one was, we usually watch the whole thing. Survival games, not so much. But if we’re going to sponsor someone, we have the Druids show us everything. So I’m aware of what happened on the island and have a passing familiarity with your basic skills. Don’t get me wrong, Stiles, I actually am impressed with them so far. You’re smaller and you’re weaker, but you’re vicious and you don’t hold back, and that’s why you have a chance.” Peter gets to his feet. “Most werewolves bet things like food or sex, but I have something bigger riding on this. So let me ask you this right now: are you willing to do whatever it takes to win? Because if not, we’ll shake hands and part as unlikely friends. But if you are, I will get you there, Stiles. I don’t make bets intending to lose.”

Stiles nods. “Yes.”

“What if when they put you in the ring tomorrow, it’s that girl you like, from seventeen?”

Stiles swallows, and forces himself to really think about it. Thinks about killing Allison like he killed that man in the woods. Thinks about his father telling him to do whatever he needs to do in order to survive, thinks about his mother saying ‘honey, who is that?’ in bewildered tones, the first time she didn’t recognize her own son. Then he says, “Then that’ll be too bad for her, because I intend to win this.”

Peter studies him for a long minute, his gaze intent and focused. Then he nods as well. “Good. Let’s get to work.” He tugs off his shirt, and Stiles resists the urge to stare at his well-muscled chest and arms. “You, too,” Peter says, and Stiles winces but does so. “Do it when you get into the ring. You don’t want someone to be able to use it to grab you. Pants aren’t as big an issue, but the shirt will go.”

“Got it,” Stiles says, tossing his shirt a few feet away.

“One more thing before we start. Don’t worry about hurting me. You won’t – most likely. And if you do, I won’t get angry. Don’t hold back.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Actually I could really get behind punching a werewolf right about now.”

Peter smirks again, clearly amused. “Okay. Do it. I won’t block.”

Stiles pulls his fist back, ready to aim for Peter’s jaw, then changes his mind and punches him in the stomach as hard as he can.

Peter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even take a step back. “Interesting choice. Punching the abdomen will protect your hands, but it won’t do much to your opponent. You’re not strong enough, not yet. You don’t have the force to knock the wind out of someone, so it’s a waste of energy.”

“I could’ve punched you in the dick.”

“True, and when you’re in the ring, if you get a shot at your opponent’s groin, go ahead and take it. But remember, we don’t know who your opponent is going to be, and that move won’t do nearly as much to women as it will to men. That being said . . .”

He starts with an anatomy lesson, showing Stiles where the solar plexus and the kidneys are, teaching him how to make a fist so he won’t break his thumb. Then he starts showing him different holds and ways for Stiles to get out of them. Stiles has to admit to a second of ‘oh God he’s touching me’ here and there, but for the most part he focuses on the lesson.

“Can I ask a question?” he says, when Peter tells him to take a five minute break. Peter nods, so he says, “How am I going to kill somebody? I’m not strong enough to do it with my bare hands, I don’t think.” Plus the idea creeps him out, but he doesn’t want to admit that to Peter.

“Well, it’ll depend on the arena they choose. You won’t get weapons, exactly, but odds are good that there will be things you can use as weapons. Like on the island.”

“So it won’t just be the two of us in a fighting ring?”

“Very doubtful. Fights like that are boring, and werewolves hate being bored.”

Stiles nods a little and says, “You . . . you are a werewolf, right?”

Peter cocks his head to one side curiously. “Yes. Why?”

“Because you refer to them like you aren’t. ‘Werewolves hate being bored’. ‘Werewolves don’t like heights’. You separate yourself from them. I thought maybe you were a Druid or something.”

“Ah,” Peter says. He gives a toothy grin and continues, “No, I am indeed a werewolf, and, in point of fact, I hate being bored. In any case, I wouldn’t worry too much about your abilities. Look for an opportunity, look for a weapon.”

“Okay, but what if I can’t?”

Peter reaches out and takes Stiles’ hand, lifting it to his throat. Stiles forgets to breathe for a moment, feeling Peter’s pulse, steady underneath his fingers. “This,” he says, “is the carotid artery. Not this,” he adds, moving Stiles’ hand slightly. “This. Right here. Feel the difference?” he asks, and Stiles nods. “That’s what brings blood to your brain. Pressure to that will cause unconsciousness in about ten seconds. Much faster and easier than trying to cut off someone’s air. After that, well, I suppose you can just kick them in the head until the bell rings.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, then shakes his head. “I definitely should _not_ feel better about knowing how to kill someone with my bare hands.”

At this, Peter just shrugs and says, “Let’s get back to work.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

 

The sun is setting by the time Peter says that they’re done for the day. He teaches Stiles how to do several stretches, and then makes him walk around the roof to cool down. “Hungry?” he asks, when he hears Stiles’ stomach growl.

“Hell yes,” Stiles says. “I haven’t eaten in two days now.”

Peter frowns at him. “And why is that?”

Stiles shrugs. “The other contestants are pissed at me for getting out of fighting the golem. They’ve been pushing me around. It’s not a big deal. I can go a couple days without food.”

“Not if you want to stay strong enough to win.” Peter shakes his head. “Come with me.”

Stiles follows him. They go down two flights of stairs and come out on the main floor of the settlement. It’s crowded there, and he resists the urge to grab Peter’s wrist as he snakes through the crowd. He hears some murmurs and whispers around them, which Peter ignores with ease. Stiles is wondering which of them the crowd is whispering about, but he forgets all about it when Peter leads him into a cafeteria. There are counters to his left and right with an assortment of food he’s never even seen, and everything smells amazing. He has to swallow before he starts to drool. “How – how much can I take?” he asks.

“As much as you want,” Peter says, looking vaguely amused.

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. He sees trays and plates, and gets to it. There are steaks and potatoes and pieces of chicken, vegetables of a variety of colors he didn’t know was possible, bread in an assortment of shapes. He loads the tray down until his arms start to sag underneath the weight.

“This way,” Peter says, and gestures for Stiles to follow him. They go to a table in the back corner, and Peter sits with his back against the wall. Stiles wonders about it, but doesn’t care. He buries his face in his food.

“After this, I’ll take you back to the barracks,” Peter says. “Get plenty of rest.”

Stiles nods and continues eating. He stops just short of making himself sick, reminding himself forcefully that he’ll need to be at his best the next day. “Hey, Peter,” he says, as they head back to the barracks. “Thanks. You know, for teaching me.”

“Don’t thank me,” Peter says. “This is a relationship of mutual benefit, and you don’t owe me anything.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles says. “Maybe I mean thanks for choosing me. For thinking that I’m not weak, like everybody else does.”

Peter looks amused. “Again, not really something to thank me for. It’s not either of our responsibility for the fact that the others are idiots.”

Stiles gives a snort. “Okay, I guess I’ll just stop talking to you, then.”

“Excellent plan.”

Five minutes later, they’re back at the barracks. Ennis gives him an enormous scowl as he walks in, and Peter turns and walks away without another word.

“Where have you been?” Allison asks, her eyes wide. “I mean, I got that the people called were the ones who have sponsors, but the others all got back hours ago.”

“Really?” Stiles is a little surprised. “I guess maybe the other sponsors don’t take it as seriously. Which kind of makes sense. That or, uh, I needed a lot more work than the others. Which would also make sense. Okay.” He remembers what Peter had said about strategy, and gestures for Allison to follow him into one of the unoccupied corners of the room. “Okay, so here’s the deal. The werewolves bet on the games, right? And if they bet on a contestant, they can sponsor them, give them extra food and stuff like that. Plus, the werewolves know what each game is going to be. So, Peter – that’s my sponsor – said that tomorrow’s game is going to be one-on-one combat.”

Allison grimaces a little. “Great.”

“I know, right? Anyway, then he spent like four hours teaching me how to fight. Want me to show you some tips? He taught me how to deal with people twice my size.”

“Should you, though?” Allison frowns slightly. “What if you have to fight me?”

Stiles shrugs. “Knowing how to fight people bigger than you won’t help you much against me.”

Allison laughs. “Good point. Okay, then yeah.”

Stiles shows her some of the holds that Peter had showed him, and how to get out of them. He’s careful not to overwork himself. “Anyway,” he says, as he’s showing her how to twist her way out of a headlock, “I guess Peter thought that the way I kind of skated the rules in the second and third games made me a good bet.”

“You kind of skated them in the first game, too,” Allison says. “Nobody else thought of teaming up with someone else after they got their two tokens.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Stiles shrugs. “So most of the other sponsors probably just told their contestants ‘tomorrow’s going to be a one-on-one tournament, here are some extra rations’ and then sent them back here. And didn’t, you know, spend four hours trying to teach them not to die in the ring. Here, if I get you like this, piston your leg back, your heel should connect with my knee.”

Allison does, though without any force behind it. “More like your thigh.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m short. Trust me, on a big guy you’ll hit their knee.” Stiles lets her go, frowning a little. “He’s not . . . what I would have expected. Like, all the other werewolves are these thugs. Not just here, but at the camp where I’m from. Peter was kind of . . .” He struggles to find a word. “Intellectual.”

Allison frowns. “Okay, I’m trying to picture an intellectual werewolf, and I have to tell you, I’m coming up with nothing.”

“Yeah, I honestly wondered if he’s a Druid, but he’s not.” Stiles shrugs a little. “I guess it takes all kinds.” He yawns, surprising himself. “I’m gonna sack out. Don’t bother worrying about me at breakfast tomorrow. Peter fed me a solid ton, so I won’t even be hungry, and I’d rather go into the fight on an empty stomach anyway.”

“Okay.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Peter gets back to the den, Derek is the only one there, curled up in the corner with a book. “Where are your sisters?” Peter greets him.

“Cora’s staying with the Ito pack tonight,” Derek says. “She was home for dinner and Laura said it was okay.” He closes his book and puts it aside. “Laura only left about ten minutes ago. Kali came by and said she needed her.”

Peter grimaces a little. He’s sure that the other alphas are going to make Laura’s life a living hell while all this is going on. “Laura is supposed to have a week off from Omega duties.”

“I know, and she said so, but Kali said it wasn’t about that. She needed her for something else.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” Peter murmurs, and then shrugs it off. It’s typical of Ennis and Kali, and right now he doesn’t have the leverage to force them to back down. He doesn’t put it past them to find ways to make Stiles’ life more difficult. The bullying from the other contestants is going to be a problem, but it’s a longstanding issue. The werewolves have never cared; if the contestant is strong enough to win the games, he’ll be strong enough to handle the bullies. Still, it’s worth thinking about how they’re going to deal with it long-term. In the short-term, it means he can’t say anything about how they’re treating Laura.

“Where were you?” Derek asks, putting his book aside. “Laura said you were sponsoring someone in the games, but she didn’t think it would keep you out so late.”

“As a matter of fact, it did. I was teaching him some fighting techniques.”

“Oh. Okay.” Derek shifts uncomfortably, before saying, “I wish you hadn’t. Sponsored him, I mean.”

Peter glances over from where he’s looking through their collection of tea. It’s hard to come by these days. There’s a camp for coffee production, but none for tea. Most of what he has is decades old by now, but at least it keeps well. “Why?”

“Because we’re screwed if he loses.” Derek’s voice is short and angry. “ _I’m_ screwed. Laura and Cora would do okay in the rings, and you’ll get to stay here, but me – if I go to the rings, I’ll get my ass handed to me.”

Peter nods a little. He puts aside the tea and walks over to the corner, sitting down next to Derek. “I doubt I would enjoy being Duke’s omega any more than you’d enjoy getting your ass kicked in the rings. But I acknowledge that this was my choice, that it’s a risk I chose to make, on behalf of the entire pack. I know that telling you I don’t intend to lose won’t make a difference to you, because it’s not your point. But at the same time, I won’t apologize for it. Because we can’t survive this way, Derek. You know it as well as I do. Eventually one of the other alphas will ‘accidentally’ kill your sister, and we’ll be without an alpha. Then you’ll be sent to the rings anyway. We need to take action, now, while we have this chance.”

Derek’s jaw sets angrily, and he doesn’t say anything.

“On the other hand, you _could_ survive the rings, if you got sent there,” Peter says, “just as the contestant I chose to sponsor can survive the games. It’s not about being strong. It’s about being smart. Did I ever tell you the story of how I dealt with bullies when I was young?”

At this, Derek gives him a sideways look. “No. It’s hard to picture you being bullied.”

“Oh, I was. Relentlessly. I had a human father and my nose stuck in books ninety percent of the time. I would have been content to simply avoid the rest of the world, by my mother didn’t think that was a good idea. Seemed to think it would stunt my social development. So unlike you and Cora, I still had to attend lessons. I got beaten up pretty much every day. I tried to fight back, but that only made it worse, because I was weak, and they knew it. My mother told me to just ignore them. They’d get bored with it. But Talia . . .” A smile touches Peter’s lips as he thinks back. “Talia told me I had to fight back, not in their way, but in _my_ way. That she knew I could beat them if I did that.”

“So what did you do?” Derek asks, absorbed despite himself.

“I poisoned the whole lot of them with wolfsbane,” Peter says, and Derek barks out a short laugh. “I was smart about it, too. Whichever one was giving me a hard time, I just slipped a little into their lunch. Not enough to kill them, just enough to make them sick. They couldn’t figure out how I was doing it. They thought I had a Druid helping me. So they beat me up more. So I poisoned them more. Et cetera . . . until they got the idea and left me alone.”

Derek is shaking his head and laughing quietly. “You’re a trip, Uncle Peter. I’m pretty sure Mom wouldn’t be happy to hear you encouraging me to poison people.”

“No?” Peter snorts. “I suppose not. But then again, she wouldn’t exactly be surprised, either.”

“Anyway, I can’t poison people in the rings.”

“That’s not my point. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t think you’re weak just because your version of strength doesn’t match everyone else’s.” Peter waves a hand vaguely at their surroundings. “Anyway, I won’t let you be sent to the rings. I made a promise to your mother, you might recall, to take care of you.”

“What if forty-two loses?”

Peter shrugs. “I’ll improvise.”

“Oh, _that’s_ reassuring.” Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s a little more relaxed, and Peter will take what he can get. “What’s he like? The human.”

“Clever.” Another smile rises to Peter’s mouth, unbidden. “And . . . impetuous. Impertinent, even. Which is a trait I normally dislike, but somehow works from him.”

“That’s a lot of ten cent words for someone you just met today.”

“He’s not afraid of us, even though we could kill him in an instant. It’s attractive.” Peter smirks. “He’s attractive. I’m not going to apologize for finding him so.”

Derek rolls his eyes again. “Okay, Uncle Peter. If you like him so much, why don’t you marry him?”

“The night is young,” Peter says, and Derek laughs despite himself.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The werewolves seem to have learned from what happened in the third game, and the contestants aren’t allowed to watch the others compete in the fourth. Instead, they sit around an enormous empty room while their numbers are called two at a time. The atmosphere is tense. Nobody wants to talk to anyone else. They don’t even get to see who wins and who loses, as the winner is apparently being escorted back to the barracks without being shown back into the waiting room.

“You can’t fight with your hair down like that, come here,” Stiles says to Allison, while they’re waiting. “Let me braid it for you, and you can stuff the braid down your shirt so people can’t grab it.”

“Okay.” Allison fidgets a little while Stiles combs his fingers through her hair. “I don’t have anything to tie it off with.”

“Got you covered,” Stiles says. “Tore a loose thread off my blanket this morning. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I’m surprised you even know how to braid hair,” Allison says, as he divides her hair into sections.

“Yeah, well . . .” Stiles shrugs a little. “I’ve been helping take care of my mom for a lot of years, you know? My dad was working such long hours in the mill, before I could start there . . . I was the only who helped her get dressed and brush her hair and everything. So I learned.”

“That makes sense.” Allison is quiet for a long minute while Stiles braids her hair. “I really hope you win, Stiles. I hope you can help her.”

“I hope you win, too,” Stiles says.

Allison shrugs. “I won’t,” she says. “The guards said yesterday that people without sponsors never win.”

“You don’t have a sponsor, but I do, and you have me,” Stiles says, and gives her braid a tug before tucking it down her shirt. “There. You’re good to go.”

Allison glances over her shoulder at him, and for a minute he thinks she’s going to say that’s not how any of this works, but then she reaches out and takes his hand. “Thanks, Stiles.”

She twines her fingers through his and they wait in silence for one of them to be called.

“Forty-two!” Ennis shouts, and then moments later, “Seventy-three!”

Stiles doesn’t know all the other contestants’ numbers yet, and he looks around as he stands up, and sees Donovan smirking over at him. Despite himself, he relaxes a little. He knows he still needs to be on guard and fight his best, but he’d definitely prefer Donovan over a lot of other options. They follow Ennis through the portal and into a room that reminds him of the mill. It’s large and metal, and there are suspended platforms and walkways over a long drop.

Ennis shoves them both onto one of the platforms. “One of you has to kill the other. That’s it, that’s the only rule.” He sneers at Stiles and adds, “Hopefully even you can’t mess that up.”

Stiles salutes, sneaking a glance at Donovan. The other teenager is smirking at him and cracking his knuckles like he’s really looking forward to this fight. Stiles tenses up again, but reminds himself that he can do this. The arena is going to give him some advantages he hadn’t expected. He won’t need to kill his opponent with his bare hands – just knock him off the platform. And he’s used to keeping his balance on precarious equipment, because of his work at the mill. It’s a good set-up for him.

They’re standing about ten feet apart, facing each other. Ennis leaves the platform and then goes back through the portal. Moments later, the gong sounds.

Donovan doesn’t waste time. He charges forward, lowering his head like a battering ram. Stiles almost laughs, because this is one of the first things Peter taught him. It’s easy to sidestep, grab Donovan by the wrist, and give his arm a solid twist as he staggers past. Then Stiles lets go and gives him a solid shove for good measure. Donovan stumbles a little but doesn’t go far enough to fall from the platform.

When he turns, he looks pissed, but he approaches more cautiously the second time. Donovan’s not stupid, more’s the pity, and he’s clearly reevaluating Stiles. He throws a punch, which Stiles blocks, feints, and throws another one. Stiles can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he takes a step backwards to avoid the next hit. He’s not strong enough to really hurt Donovan. He just needs to get him to make a mistake that he can use to throw him off the platform.

Donovan sees his advantage and pushes it, raining down blows that Stiles has no choice but to dodge. He’s coming close to the back edge of the platform. He takes a quick glance around and sees another platform to his left, about six feet away and ten feet lower. Without taking the time to think, he jumps down to it.

“Coward!” Donovan shouts at him, laughing. He jumps down, clearly intending to land right on top of Stiles. Stiles dodges out of the way, but Donovan lunges forward, taking him down in a full tackle. Stiles winds up on his stomach with Donovan’s arm around his throat. He slams his head backwards, into Donovan’s mouth, and the other teenager lets out a little yelp. His grip loosens enough for Stiles to get his teeth in the meaty part of Donovan’s forearm, biting down hard. Donovan rears back and away, giving Stiles time to roll onto his stomach and push himself up to his hands and knees. Donovan makes it to his knees as well, and Stiles throws himself forward, slamming his head into Donovan’s groin.

At this, Donovan screams. Stiles gets on top of him, making a fist and pressing his knuckles into Donovan’s throat the way Peter had showed him. Donovan makes a choking noise, but he doesn’t waste time. His arm comes up opposite Stiles’ and he hits him right across the jaw. Stiles sees it coming but doesn’t manage to block. He goes rolling off Donovan and nearly off the platform, scrambling to grab the edge before he can fall. He manages to catch it with both forearms, leaving his top half on the platform while his legs dangle.

Donovan grabs him by the ear and tries to pry him off the platform. Stiles lets go of the platform and locks his arms around Donovan’s shoulders instead, making Donovan drag him back onto the platform to avoid being dragged off with him. The two of them struggle for several long minutes, trying to get a grip on the other without being grabbed. Stiles finally manages to squirm free and back to his feet. He kicks Donovan hard in the knee and then turns and runs down the platform. He gives a flying leap and manages to grab the platform above them. Donovan isn’t far behind him, grabbing him by the leg, but Stiles pistons his legs backwards and kicks hard with both of them. He catches Donovan in the chest, sending him staggering backwards.

Stiles doesn’t stop to think. If he thinks, there will be no time. He jumps back down onto the platform and runs toward Donovan, ducking to one side and then shouldering him right off the platform.

Donovan screams on the way down, and then there’s a horrible thud, and silence. Stiles stands on the platform, trying to catch his breath. He can hear it whistling in his lungs, and his trembling fists are clenched at his sides. He doesn’t even notice when the portal opens next to him. After a few moments, someone grabs him by the elbow, and he flinches so hard that he nearly falls off the platform. The werewolf drags him through the portal.

He finds himself back in the barracks, and walks back towards his bed like he’s in a dream. He sits down on it, then lies down, staring up at the ceiling. Gradually, his breathing evens out. The adrenaline wears off, leaving him shaky and exhausted. He wants to sleep for a week, and closes his eyes.

He’s startled out of his doze when a voice says, “Stiles! You made it!” He looks up to see Allison walking over. One side of her face is bruised and swollen, and she’s limping. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Yeah, you . . . you too.” Stiles sits up, and feeling starts to return to his body. “You look awful.”

“But I’m alive,” Allison says, smiling slightly. Then her smile fades. “You don’t look so good yourself.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m okay. I’m not sure I _should_ be okay, but I guess I am.”

Allison nods a little. “That . . . that’s about how I feel, too. But I’m glad we made it. I just hope the next game is easier. We ought to be due for a survival game, right?”

“I guess so, yeah. I hope so.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sleeps restlessly, and he knows he doesn’t look good the next day. He’s determined to keep it to himself. The others will only take it as a sign of weakness if they thinking killing someone has gotten to him. It doesn’t make any sense, anyway. He killed the guy on the island and was basically fine afterwards. He’s just tired, that’s all.

When he goes for breakfast, Brunski and a couple of his henchmen shove him into a corner. “So how’d you do it?” Brunski asks.

“Do what?” Stiles replies, even though he’s fairly sure he knows.

“Win a fight,” Brunski says with a sneer. “How’d you cheat your way out of that one?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something pithy, but then thinks better of the idea. Letting Brunski and his crew think he’s weak is really only an advantage. If they find out he actually knows how to fight, they’ll take him more seriously, and he doesn’t want that. “Just luck, I guess.”

“Well, that Donovan kid was a pussy, too,” Brunski says. “Wait until you have to fight a real man. Then you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Brunski shoulders him aside before Stiles can point out that at least a third of the surviving candidates are women, and that Brunski is a misogynistic asshole. He shakes his head and decides to forego breakfast. On the upside, dealing with Brunski has settled his nerves a little. He couldn’t say why. Maybe it just serves as a reminder that he’s by far not the worst person in here.

“Forty-two!” Ennis’ voice booms out about an hour later. He calls out several numbers, and they follow him outside. Stiles sees Peter waiting, leaning against the wall, and detaches from the group without waiting to be given permission.

“Are you hungry?” Peter greets him, and Stiles shakes his head. “Okay. Follow me.”

They head back up to the roof. Stiles waits until the door closes after him before he says, “How did I do?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Peter says, and Stiles shrugs. “We definitely need to review what to do when you have the advantage. You got on top but you didn’t know what to do once you were there.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Stiles says, unable to help it.

Peter snorts, then gives Stiles an up-and-down look, like he’s considering removing all of Stiles’ clothes. Stiles feels his skin go hot and he holds still under Peter’s gaze, unable to help it, until Peter smirks and says, “Sadly, this will not be _that_ kind of lesson. Some other time, perhaps. Anyway, we have other things to do right now. The next game is a survival game, so if you’re smart and lucky, you won’t have to fight at all.”

“Okay, cool,” Stiles says, wrenching his brain and his libido back on track. “Do you know anything else about it?”

“It’s a long one. A week in the arena,” Peter says, and Stiles grimaces. “They’ll try to force you to fight by making you compete for resources. Food will be provided, but will be hidden around the arena. So you won’t be able to just grab a backpack and hide in a cave.”

“You say that like it wasn’t a perfectly viable plan when I did it.”

“Fair enough,” Peter says. “It was, and it worked. But it won’t work this time. Fortunately, all of us sponsors have gotten a quick look at the arena, and I think we can work out a way to keep you alive. The food that is purposefully provided won’t be your only option. There’s a variety of edible plants and small animals there.”

“And probably some poisonous ones, too,” Stiles says.

Peter nods. “So first I need to teach you the difference in the plants. Then I’m going to teach you how to make snares. Every contestant will be given a weapon of choice - so you can get a knife - and some other basics like matches and rope. It’ll be easy enough to catch some rabbits.”

“Okay.” Stiles hesitates. “Can I team up with Allison?”

“The girl from seventeen?” Peter shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

“If she gets a bow and arrow, she’ll be a better hunter than I will be, even with snares.”

“True. And in exchange for the information, she certainly ought to help you. As I said, it’s up to you. I don’t know her, so I’ll have to trust your judgment that she won’t kill you in your sleep. I have to admit that I’m curious about it, though.”

“Curious how?” Stiles asks, sitting down and pulling his legs underneath himself.

“Humans aren’t pack animals, the way we are. People don’t team up during the games. They know that they could be fighting each other in the next one - why get attached to someone you might end up having to kill?”

Stiles shrugs. “Making friends with Allison wasn’t entirely a strategic move. I didn’t want to have to fight her, so I talked my way out of it. Then we wound up stuck in the cave together, so I guess getting to know each other was inevitable.”

“Do you think that would make it more difficult to kill her, if it comes down to that?”

“Of course it will,” Stiles says.

“Then why allow it?”

Stiles frowns at Peter, thinking this over. “You act like I have a choice in the matter. But, you know, humans care about each other, whether we’re pack animals or not. Allison didn’t ask to be here any more than I did. I can’t just not know that.”

“True.” Peter shakes his head. “Even so. Your attachment to her is worrisome.”

“Then get used to being worried,” Stiles replies.

Peter’s mouth thins in irritation. “You said you were willing to do what it takes to win.”

“And I am. If I have to kill Allison, I will. If she’s dragging me down, I’ll let her go. But the games have had more than one winner in the past, so if I can get both of us across that godforsaken finish line, I will. Now are you going to teach me how to make snares, or are we going to keep arguing about something that’s not going to change?”

The tension sits for a moment before Peter smiles. “I suppose that I can’t really be annoyed at you for being this stubborn, when it’s half the reason I chose you.”

“That’s swell. Snares?”

“Plants first.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

 

Peter can’t tell Stiles whether they’ll be sent into the arena one at a time, or if they’ll all start at the same place. Given that, teaming up with Allison might not be as easy as he hopes. Everything Peter teaches him, he passes on to her. They sit together in the evenings, after he gets back to the barracks, and he draws pictures of plants for her. They’re not allowed to have weapons, but Allison explains to him how to make a bow and arrows, so he can at least give it a whirl once he’s in the arena.

“What are you two up to over here?” Theo asks, sauntering over to where they’re both sitting on Allison’s bed. He sees Stiles’ wary look and adds, “Hey, no hard feelings about Donovan. It’s not like he was my friend or anything.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

“You’ve had your heads put together for days,” Theo says, with a guileless smile. “What are you plotting?”

“We’re not plotting anything,” Allison says with a shrug. “Just trying to guess what the next game will be.”

“Gotta be a survival game, right?” Theo says, sitting down on the bed opposite them without waiting for an invitation. “The last couple have been one-on-one fights.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, and doesn’t elaborate.

Theo’s enthusiasm isn’t dampened by Stiles’ reticence. “So what’s it like having a sponsor? Hell, what’s your sponsor like?”

“He’s kind of a dick,” Stiles says. “I mean, what werewolf isn’t? But he taught me how to fight, which is pretty much the only reason I survived fighting Donovan.”

“Cool,” Theo says, glancing at Stiles like he’s reassessing him. Stiles resists the urge to tell him that he’s not fooling anyone. “So you two are pretty tight, huh? Room for a third in your romance?”

Allison looks at Theo like he just crawled out of a toilet to start hitting on her. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“C’mon, why not?” Theo asks. “I mean, yeah, we might all have to kill each other somewhere down the line, but if it doesn’t matter to the two of you – and it must not, since you’re working together – then it doesn’t matter to me either.”

“We’ll think about it,” Stiles says, because it’s the easier way to get rid of him.

Theo smiles and accepts this. “Okay, cool. Good luck in the fifth game.”

After he walks off, Allison wrinkles her nose and says, “He’s such an opportunistic little dick. He sucks up to Brunski and the others, too.”

Stiles shrugs a little and says, “It’s not a bad strategy. He just wants to survive. I can’t fault him for that, but I’m not going to fall for it, either.”

“Sounds fair,” Allison says, and they go back to practicing snares.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The portal comes out into the middle of a forest. It’s full of tall pines and thick underbrush, and there’s a light breeze rustling the branches. They’re all in a group, so Stiles and Allison walk side by side down the narrow path until they come out into a clearing with a river on one side. Then they’re herded into a circle.

“The fifth game will now begin!” Ennis shouts. “You will be in this arena for one week!”

There’s a ripple of surprise from the contestants without sponsors, to hear that the game is going to last so long.

“Your only mission is to survive! Food and supplies have been hidden around the arena. Not enough for everybody, of course,” Ennis adds with a smirk, and Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes. “But we’ll see who makes it and who doesn’t! As soon as I leave through the portal, the week will begin!”

Stiles glances at Allison, and she nods. He tilts his head to the left, where he sees a path through the brush. Allison nods again. A few minutes later, Ennis steps through the portal. The other contestants take off into the forest. Stiles grabs Allison by the hand and they take off at a dead run. They go up a hill and practically fall down the other side in a shower of dirt and rocks.

Nobody seems to be on their trail, so they slow to a brisk walk on the valley floor. Stiles almost enjoys it. The air is crisp and clean and it’s almost the perfect temperature. They could be going for a picnic. After about a half hour, they find a small copse of trees which will be a good place to set up camp.

“So what’s in these packs if not food?” Allison asks, unzipping hers.

“Peter said it would be some basic supplies.” Stiles looks in his as well to see two coils of rope of different diameter, a pack of matches, a plastic bottle and some of the water purification tablets. There’s a compass and a rolled up blanket. The knife he had requested was given to him before they had entered the arena. “Not bad,” he says. “If we didn’t need to eat, this would serve us pretty nicely.”

Allison gives a snort. “I’ll set up the snares, you look for the plants.”

“Got it.” Stiles starts out from the copse of trees, keeping his eyes peeled for the things Peter had described to him. He finds a bunch of chicory and some clover, and then a patch of dandelions. There are some mushrooms, but Peter had said not to eat any mushrooms unless he was absolutely sure they were one of the three varieties he knew for a fact weren’t poisonous and could describe. These aren’t, so Stiles leaves them be. He gathers up some acorns, which Peter had said to save for a last resort, and then heads back for their camp.

Allison isn’t back yet, but the sun is setting and the wind is picking up. He gathers wood for a fire and wishes their supplies had had a pot so they could boil water. It didn’t need to be purified, but he thought some of the plants might be more appetizing that way.

He’s just getting the fire started when Allison comes back, and she proudly displays the bird she had gotten with one of her arrows. “Nice!” Stiles says. It’s actually a pretty large bird, some sort of water fowl, he thinks. “Not that I know what to do with it. Pluck it, I guess?”

“I actually know how,” Allison says. “We were taught cooking, remember? And we learned it from scratch, because werewolves often hunt their own game and then want it prepared. Can I borrow your knife?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, handing it over. He’s found a few branches with forks in them, and he mounts them on either side of the fire. A few minutes later, they’re turning the bird on the makeshift spit. “Hey, this isn’t so bad, huh? Like old-school camping.”

Allison laughs quietly. “It reminds me of the resistance camp. We cooked over an open fire a lot, because we never really stayed anywhere permanent enough to have an oven or a stove.”

“Makes sense.” Stiles watches Allison as she chews on a leaf. “You must miss it a lot.”

“Yeah,” Allison says. “Every day.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

“Thanks for helping me, Stiles,” Allison finally says. “Everyone was talking about how the people without sponsors never survived, and I . . . I knew going in that I was a long shot, but I’m glad I at least _have_ a shot, you know?”

“Hey, you’ve helped me as much as I’ve helped you, maybe more,” Stiles says. “You kept me from getting killed in the very first game.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Allison cheers up. “We’ll call it even.”

Stiles laughs, and he’s about to say something else when he hears the snap of someone stepping on a branch. They both spin around, Allison already nocking an arrow, to see Theo lifting his hands in surrender. “Whoa, I come in peace!” he says, laughing. “Sorry. Smelled whatever it is you’re cooking and thought maybe we could do a little trading.”

Allison lowers her bow, although she looks somewhat reluctant to be doing so. “What’ve you got?”

Theo reaches into his bag and pulls out a bag of what looks like small rolls. “Hardtack. Stays good for a while.”

Allison and Stiles exchange a glance, and Stiles shrugs. They won’t be able to eat the entire bird before it goes bad, and they could use something durable like hardtack. “Okay, sure,” Allison says, and gestures. “Bird’s still cooking. Come have a seat.”

Theo grins at both of them and walks over. “Where’d you find it?”

“In the river,” Allison says, rolling her eyes. “Where’d you get the bread?”

“I found it tucked away inside a fallen log. Gotta be food all over the arena if they want us to survive, right?”

“Assuming they want us to,” Stiles says, and hopes the bird cooks faster.

“Still, I figure three heads are better than two, right?” Theo asks, still smiling.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, because at this point they aren’t really spoiled for choice. He doesn’t want to have to move, since Allison has set up all their snares. If they don’t let Theo join them, they’ll have to deal with him being at their backs, which is something he doesn’t want. It’s only one game. “So where are you from, anyway? I don’t remember if you said or not. I mean, I know you’re from camp two hundred, but what do they do there?”

“It’s a tannery,” Theo says. His gaze falls on the pile of greens. “Hey, can we eat those? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, my sponsor gave me a list of the type of edible plants I’d find,” Stiles says. “Help yourself.”

Theo picks up a dandelion and starts chewing. “Bitter as hell.”

“You don’t have to eat it,” Stiles says.

“I still can’t believe you got a sponsor,” Theo says. “I mean, no offense, but everyone else who got a sponsor is one of those huge muscle-heads.”

Stiles shrugs. “Peter likes a dark horse, I guess.”

“That kind of makes sense, huh?” Allison chimes in. “I mean, gambling seems to be a big deal for them. He probably got better odds on you than he would have if he had chosen someone like Brunski.”

“I think he just bet on me because he’s got some kind of rivalry with Ennis, the guy in charge, and Ennis is all pissed off at me for what happened with the golem,” Stiles says. It’s not really true, but he doesn’t want Theo thinking about it a lot.

Allison changes the subject, asking if Theo has any family, to which he says he doesn’t. Allison doesn’t either, so they bond over that and Stiles stays out of it. By the time the bird is ready, his stomach is growling. They divide it up into three fairly equal portions and eat it along with a piece of hardtack each.

“Might as well get some sleep,” Stiles says, shoving some pine needles into a pile that might function as a pillow.

“I’ll take first watch,” Theo says.

They bank the fire and Stiles and Allison both stretch out in the tiny grove. Stiles tosses and turns a little, unable to help it, but finally drifts into an uneasy doze.

He’s not sure what wakes him. Maybe a noise, or maybe the crick in his neck. But he looks around to see Allison still asleep, and Theo gone. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, and shakes Allison awake. “Theo took off, the little rat bastard.”

Allison groans and closes her eyes. “Fuck him anyway.”

Seeing that she’s about to go back to sleep, Stiles says, “Allison, we have to go. We can’t stay here if Theo knows where we are – he might tell Brunski or one of the others, and they might come to kill us just because they don’t like me. We know Theo was sucking up to them – he’d trade our location for protections, or just to be a dick.”

“Fuck,” Allison says, and sits up. “I set all the snares, though.”

“I know. It sucks. But we can come back for them tomorrow, when it’s light out and it’ll be safer.”

The good news is that Theo hadn’t taken their gear. The bad news is that Stiles is all the more certain that means he’s going to go tell Brunski where they are. They pack up as quickly as possible. Stiles doesn’t relish the idea of looking for a new campsite in the dark, either. They won’t be getting any more sleep tonight, no matter what happens.

They stumble, quite literally, upon some large boulders. It doesn’t offer them much in the way of shelter, but at least they can put their backs against them and get some protection. Neither of them say anything about sleeping. They know that they can’t.

So they’re both somewhat surly in the morning. “You know what we should have done,” Stiles says, as they wait for their water to purify. “We should have waited in the dark and shot their asses when they came to look for us. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’, but, you know. I could have been your cheerleader.”

Allison snorts. “It would’ve been risky. We don’t know if Brunski’s teamed up with anyone for the survival game. Hell, we don’t even know that Theo went to Brunski. Could’ve been anyone.”

“No, it was Brunski,” Stiles says, and then shrugs. “Risky, yeah. But worth it, maybe.”

“I’m just glad we didn’t mention the snares to Theo, so he doesn’t know we have any reason to go back.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs. “I just really hate Brunski. He’s such a bully. And, like, I know that he just wants to survive, we all just want to survive. But the way he bullies other contestants – none of us want to be here, you know? None of us are the bad guys. Fighting to live is one thing, but what Brunski does is something else.”

Allison nods. “Guys like him are easy to hate.”

“Before I left, my dad said to me . . . that I’d end up wondering what the right thing to do was. But you know, the sick thing is that I haven’t. I wonder if he’d be disappointed in me. I didn’t have any trouble killing Donovan, or that guy in the first arena. Maybe I should have. I think of winning, think of my dad watching the highlights reel and seeing me kill all these people, and I . . . I feel like he’ll think less of me, even though he told me to do whatever I had to, to survive.”

“But maybe that’s it,” Allison says. “Maybe you’re not feeling bad because that _is_ what you’re doing. You’re not like Brunski. You’re not killing people because you want to. So I don’t think your dad would be disappointed in you at all.”

“You don’t think so?” Stiles manages a smile. “Yeah, maybe not.”

“You know, back when I was still with the resistance, I remember my dad talking about this,” Allison says. “You know, the younger people were always all fired up about hating werewolves and killing werewolves, and my dad always told them not to be. Because fighting in anger is a good way to get killed. He said, ‘a true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him . . . but because he loves what is behind him’.”

Stiles thinks that over, feeling tears prick at his eyes as he thinks of his parents. “Your dad sounds like he was a really great man.”

“Yeah. He was. Is, I hope. He wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t lie down and die. If they put him in a camp, he’s still out there somewhere.” Allison takes a drink of her water. “If I won, and I get to bring my family with me, do you think I get to ask them to find him? Or do I have to choose people from my own camp?”

“You know, I don’t know,” Stiles says. “There might not even be a rule about it. I mean, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, our families will be in the same camp as we are. It might have never come up before.”

“I guess not.” Allison’s hands tighten on the bottle. “I hope they let me find him.”

“I hope so, too.” Stiles stands up. “Better go check those snares and reset them in a different part of the arena.”

Allison nods. “Okay, but if we caught a bunny rabbit, you’re killing it.”

“Are you kidding? If we caught a bunny rabbit, we’re letting it go and eating more dandelions,” Stiles says, and they both laugh.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The week in the arena doesn’t go as badly as it could. After fighting Donovan and waiting to get pulverized by a rock monster, it’s a breeze. They eat a lot of dandelions and actually stumble upon a couple of the food caches, one of which was a bag of apples and the other of which was some jerky. The snares come up empty except for one time when they catch some sort of rodent, but Allison is pretty good with the bow and arrow, and the birds don’t seem too bright.

“You know, I was thinking that there actually is another reason to try to kill the other contestants even when it’s a survival game,” Stiles says, after they encounter another contestant who seems to want them dead.

“Yeah?” Allison asks, splashing some water onto her face.

“Well, the games are set up in advance, right?” Stiles asks. “The Druids need to make the arena and everything. And the last game is triggered when there are fewer than a dozen contestants left.”

Allison nods slowly. “So if you kill more contestants in the early games, you reach the end faster.”

“Yeah. Maybe get to skip a couple of levels of Hell.” Stiles shrugs. “I’m not saying we should go around killing people, but if they try to kill us first, well . . .”

“You make a compelling point.”

But that having been said, they don’t see anyone else while they’re there. Their stomachs are growling and they’re filthy when the gong finally sounds, and a portal opens up for each of them. Stiles finds that interesting. Their locations are tracked, but rather than opening one portal for both of them, they each get their own. It must have something to do with the magic used.

From the look of the barracks, everyone found the fifth game pretty easy to survive. There are still a lot of people. That probably explains why Ennis has such a sour face, and herds them into the showers, complaining that they all smell.

When they get back to the barracks, there’s food on the table, slices of some roast meat and a bunch of bread. Stiles and Allison head over, and Brunski gets in their way. “I hear you two had plenty to eat in the arena.”

“I hear your mother should have drowned you at birth,” Stiles shoots back, and Allison snorts.

Brunski gives him a shove, but then moves past them and sits down, pulling an entire plate of the roast towards himself. Stiles rolls his eyes and settles as far away from him as possible. Then he sees Theo heading over to sit by him, and says to Allison, “Think we should try to tell Theo he doesn’t get to eat?”

“He’s not worth it,” Allison says.

Theo must hear his name, because he looks over and gives them a smile. “Hey, no hard feelings, right, guys? It’s every man for himself.”

“Sit on a spear,” Allison tells him.

Theo lifts his hands in surrender and heads for a different table.

“Seriously, what a dick,” Allison says, and Stiles can’t help but laugh as he gets them both some of the bread.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Hungry?” Peter greets Stiles the next afternoon, and Stiles nods vigorously. Peter turns and starts walking without waiting to see if he’s going to follow. Stiles does, of course, and they end up in the same cafeteria as before. This time, Peter directs him to fill up a tray before leading him out.

“Why don’t you want to eat there?” Stiles asks, after they’ve settled down on the roof and he’s filling his face with food.

“I don’t get along with many of the others,” Peter says. “It’s better not to invite trouble.”

“You seem like the type that would invite trouble and then laugh in its face,” Stiles says.

A slight smile touches Peter’s face. “I was like that for a very long time, yes.”

Mouth full of chicken, Stiles asks, “This got something to do with that bet you’ve got riding on me? You said it was something bigger than what you guys usually bet on.”

Peter shrugs slightly. “Do you know what an omega is?”

“Lowest pack member, right? Kind of like a whipping boy?”

“Yes and no. The omega is the lowest ranking pack member, but in a healthy pack, they’re treated like any other member. Merely given different responsibilities. I assume you see this sort of thing at the steel mill where you grew up – tasks are given out based on strength and skill. The weaker members of your community do still have jobs to do, even important jobs. That’s what an omega is.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I was kind of the omega of my steel mill.”

“So in a healthy pack, an omega is just another person. But nowadays most packs aren’t healthy. There’s this growing, pervasive . . . belief,” Peter says, gesturing vaguely, “that the strong _must_ demonstrate their strength at all times. That someone truly strong will prey on the weak just because they’re there.”

“Like the relationship between werewolves and humans,” Stiles says.

Peter nods at him. “And over the last few generations, that thinking is starting to spread into packs themselves. What was originally a way to protect ourselves from humans has started poisoning werewolf packs. Our society is eating itself alive.”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Why are you telling me this?”

Peter looks thoughtful. “I suppose because I haven’t had a chance to talk to anybody about it in a long time, and I’ve missed that.”

“Oh. Okay, I guess that makes sense. I’m still not sure I should know.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks you should or shouldn’t know. You’re like me. You ask questions, you put puzzle pieces together. For example. If I had asked you two weeks ago why werewolves turn the victors in the games, you would have had no idea. Correct?”

Stiles nods. “I had wondered about it, actually.”

“Are you still wondering? Or are you starting to put the reasoning together?”

Stiles thinks about it while he finishes shoveling food into his mouth. It’s an interesting question, and despite what Peter has said, the answer doesn’t leap to the top of his brain. “They must need more werewolves, right? That’s why they turn not only the victor, but let them bring their families, build their own packs. Except . . .” He frowns slightly, and glances at Peter, whose face is neutral. “They could turn anyone they wanted, any time. Why turn it into an honor?”

Peter gives him a slight smile, then gestures to the roof they’re sitting on. “Look around. What do you see?”

“Not much,” Stiles says.

“Okay. But where are you?”

Stiles frowns at him. He’d say he doesn’t appreciate the riddles, but he finds that he actually _is_ enjoying trying to tease out the meaning behind Peter’s words. “Werewolf central, right?”

Peter nods. “The largest werewolf settlement on the continent. Very few humans ever see it. But you have. How does it meet your expectations?”

Stiles thinks that over. “It’s smaller than I would have thought.”

“And?”

“And . . . holy shit, that’s pretty important, isn’t it,” Stiles says, and Peter merely nods. “There are, what, a couple dozen major werewolf settlements? And this is the largest one. But it’s only about as twice as big as the camp I’m from. Maybe not even that. And there are _hundreds_ of camps. Jesus, we outnumber you guys at least fifty to one. That’s why they don’t send us home. They don’t want us telling the others that. If there was a real uprising . . .”

“This is the difference between actual strength and perceived strength,” Peter says. “If you take a young animal and tie it up with a chain, the chain can hold it. As it grows older, it gains the strength to break the chain, but never breaks out of the mindset that the chain is stronger than they are. That’s werewolves and humans right now.”

“Okay, I’m _definitely_ sure you shouldn’t be telling me this,” Stiles says.

“Why not? You would have figured it out anyway. And it doesn’t matter who you tell. All the humans with you are dead humans walking. Only one will survive – and they’ll never be allowed to go home. So what does it matter?”

Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest. “So even if I win, I’ll be a prisoner for the rest of my life.”

“Well, that depends on you. Most of the winners have adapted. Many of them don’t realize why they’re forced to stay here. To be honest, most of them don’t care. They’re now living in the comparative lap of luxury; they’re allowed to bring their families and closest friends. They change sides in a war they don’t even realize is still ongoing. You can adapt, too.”

“What happens if I can’t?”

“Then you’ll be like me. An outcast among what’s supposed to be your own kind. And eventually werewolf society will collapse without any help from the humans.”

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head. “You never told me what your bet was.”

“Ah, that’s true. I got sidetracked. As every pack has an omega, every settlement does, too. A settlement is a collection of packs that live together, independent units inside a cohesive whole. The person in charge of all of the packs is called the Alpha of Alphas. And the alpha of the lowest ranking pack in the settlement is the Omega of Alphas. Right now, I’m in the lowest ranking pack, and the Omega of Alphas is my niece. She is, as you so succinctly put it, a whipping boy. But rather than a whipping boy for one pack, she’s a whipping boy for _every_ pack. It’s a situation which I find unacceptable. So I’ve wagered on you, for my pack standing. If you survive, we’ll move up in the settlement’s rankings and Laura will no longer be the omega. If you die, my pack will be disbanded, sent to the rings – that’s a lesson for another time – and cast out of the settlement.”

Stiles thinks that over for a long minute. “Is your pride so important to you, that you’d risk that?”

“It’s not about pride,” Peter says, and Stiles gives him an incredulous look. Peter’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “Okay. It’s a little bit about pride. But mostly it’s about pain. About what my niece has to go through. Her mother left her in my care, and I’ve done my best to protect her, but being the Omega of Alphas is . . . a trial. So yes, I’m willing to risk everything, but as I said, I don’t make bets to lose. Which brings me to the sixth game.”

“Right, back to work,” Stiles says.

“You won’t be able to team up with Seventeen on this one,” Peter says, “or with anyone, for that matter. It’s a survival game, but there can only be one winner.”

“Wouldn’t that make it the last game?”

Peter waves this aside. “You’ll go in two at a time. The arena is set up to be completely hostile to human life. I don’t know precisely how, but it will be some kind of extreme environment – hot, cold, underwater, no water at all, et cetera.”

“And the last one who survives wins,” Stiles says, and Peter nods. Stiles rubs both hands over his face and says, “Which means that the vast majority of candidates will actively try to kill the other person in the arena, rather than waiting to see who can tread water the longest.”

“Exactly,” Peter says. “You’ll be battling both the elements and whoever is in there with you.”

“What’s your best guess to the environment?” Stiles asks.

Peter considers for a few moments. “Cold,” he finally says. “Magically, that would be the easiest.” He sees the curious look on Stiles’ face and says, “Cold is the absence of energy, as opposed to heat. To make an arena that’s extremely hot would involve a lot of expending energy on the part of the Druids involved. They’d prefer cold. And it’ll kill you just as fast if not faster.”

“Great,” Stiles says. “I’m more used to heat. The mill gets hot a lot of the time.”

“Well, we can’t win them all,” Peter says with a shrug. “Weapons won’t be a problem. I’m sure the environment will provide them. So the primary concern is that you’ll have to _find_ your opponent, before you drop dead.”

“Oh, no problem,” Stiles says. “We used to play ‘hide, seek, and freeze to death’ all the time at the mill.”

Peter gives him a look that clearly conveys how unimpressed he is with Stiles’ attitude. “I was going to recommend neither hiding nor seeking.”

“Nor freezing to death, presumably,” Stiles says, but he’s nodding along. “Stay in one place. Make some noise, build a fire if they give me anything to work with. Draw my opponent to me, and I can lay in wait for them. Solid strategy – unless we both do the same thing, and freeze to death waiting for the other.”

“I very much doubt that will happen,” Peter says. “You’re the only contestant in the entire damned Games who seems to stop and think before he acts. Whoever you’re up against will be running around the forest like an idiot, undoubtedly.”

Stiles gives him a look. “You know, you might not be such an outcast if you weren’t such an _asshole_.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “What do you care what I say about the other contestants? It’s not like you’re friends with them.”

“That’s not the point. Just don’t assume that you can flatter me by insulting the others.”

 “Flattery wasn’t my intention. I was just stating a fact.”

“If this is your argument that you’re not an asshole, I’ve got news for you: it isn’t working.”

“It really wasn’t. I know I’m an asshole; it doesn’t bother me. And just so you know, my being an outcast has nothing to do with that.”

“Right.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “You’re an outcast because you’re so much smarter than the other werewolves.”

Peter gives him a slight smile and says, “No. I’m an outcast because my father was human.”

This takes Stiles off guard, and he blurts out, “Whoa. Really? How did that happen?”

“Well,” Peter says, “when two people love each other very much . . .”

He clearly means it sarcastically, but Stiles says, “Did they?”

His question takes Peter off guard, and the werewolf briefly looks away. “Yes, actually. They did.” He clears his throat and continues, “My father was brought here as a slave. As you’ve seen, we do have them around the settlement, and the larger packs generally have one or two as maids or errand boys. My family did not. My mother, and her father before her, were actually vocal abolitionists. They never approved of what werewolves as a general rule had done to the humans. My grandfather had been alive during the war, and thought a peaceful negotiation would have been better, but – history lesson aside, we had no slaves. My mother stumbled upon my father when he was being beaten half to death in public by his owner. She took him in and nursed him back to health.”

“That must have raised a few eyebrows,” Stiles says.

“Oh, absolutely. But there was no rule against it. It was one of those things that had never been prohibited because the people in charge had never even guessed it would happen. When she married him, they insisted he be turned, so he was. My two sisters and I were all born as werewolves, but the others always considered us a lesser breed regardless.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“Executed,” Peter says, his face blank of emotion, “for instigating rebellion. That was when I was nine. My sisters raised me.”

“And . . . what happened to them?” Stiles asks, although he feels like he knows.

“Executed as well,” Peter says. “Along with both their husbands and Talia’s two oldest children. That was three years ago. Talia’s younger children and I are all that’s left of the pack.”

“That’s . . . that’s really awful, Peter,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry.”

Peter accepts this with a nod. “So you see, it’s less ‘I’m an outcast because I’m an asshole’ and more ‘I’m an asshole because I’m an outcast’. Although, to be one hundred percent fair, odds are good I would have been an asshole anyway. I’m just that sort of person.”

Stiles laughs a little. “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what trope I love? Blanket fic/huddling for warmth. =D

 

Stiles sees immediately that Peter had guessed the content of the arena accurately. He comes out of the portal into the teeth of a winter storm. He wasn’t given any equipment, so he’s dressed only in the loose shirt and pants that they had given him upon his arrival. The wind whips at them and blows snow in his face, and he’s freezing immediately. He shoves his hands into his armpits and wades through the snow, which comes up past his ankles and immediately starts falling down into his shoes.

He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. The louder, the better, in fact. He’s going to need to make noise to attract his opponent, because he certainly won’t be building a fire. At the same time, he doesn’t think he can just sit in the snow. He’ll freeze to death all the faster that way. He needs to find or build at least a little bit of shelter.

He quickly discovers that the arena is actually the same one they had been in during the fifth game. It just looks different when covered in snow. There are plenty of trees. After about an hour of staggering through the woods, he finds a fairly sheltered clearing right by the river. He starts pacing around it, doing jumping jacks to keep himself warm.

Whatever magic the Druids can do, it’s impressive. It’s only been a few days since the last game, but the arena is a winter wonderland. Even the river is mostly frozen over, and it hadn’t been shallow.

Stiles has lost feeling in his feet and hands, and he starts to rethink their strategy before another hour has gone by. He knows that Peter is right, and that waiting is the right thing to do. If he’s wandering around while his opponent is wandering around, they could keep missing each other. At least the snow is dying down, so he can see better. He tries to keep his back to the trees so his opponent won’t see him before he sees them.

He doesn’t know how long he can survive in conditions like these. Hours, yes, but not days. Maybe overnight. The arena has day and night, somehow, so in theory the temperature will drop as soon as the sun sets. He hopes he’s found before then. Either way, he’ll need a weapon. He’s not going to be able to fight without one. His entire body is numb and shaking. It won’t be much of a fight, he thinks. He hopes the werewolves watching are as bored as shit.

After a while, he starts gathering what branches he can. Those are the best weapons he’ll have. There are rocks, too, but he doesn’t want to get that close to his opponent. If the rock is big enough to do damage, it’ll be too heavy to throw. He wishes he were stronger, but there isn’t much he can do about that now.

He’s lost track of time before he sees a shadow emerge from the woods on the other side of the river. He picks up one of his branches and crouches low, staying close to the trees as he makes his way over to the bank. The figure gradually comes into view. Small, long dark hair. It’s Tracy. A little shudder of relief goes through him. He doesn’t want to fight Tracy - doesn’t want to fight anyone - but far better her than someone like Brunski.

She sees him only moments after he sees her. Their eyes lock from opposite sides of the river, and then her lip curls. She draws her arm back and throws a rock, but it falls harmlessly a few feet away from Stiles. He holds up his branch with arms that are shaking as she starts towards him.

Ten seconds later, there’s a loud crack.

Tracy freezes. She looks down to see the ice beneath her feet starting to fracture. Then she looks up. Her eyes meet Stiles’ again, and the look on her face is raw, stark terror.

Something about that look jolts Stiles into action. He doesn’t think about the consequences, doesn’t think about the fact that he’s going to have a hundred new problems if Tracy makes it to his side of the river. “Lose the rocks!” he shouts, and Tracy nods hastily, throwing her collection of rocks back to shore.

Even that small amount of movement makes the ice give away further. A little bit of cold water washes up over her feet, and she whimpers.

“Just hold still,” Stiles says, inching out onto the ice, carefully testing each step. “Don’t move. I’m coming.” He holds the branch out in front of himself as far as it will go. “Okay, give me just a sec - just lean forward, don’t move your feet, lean forward and grab the branch. You can do this. It’s going to be okay.”

The other end of the branch is about ten feet away from her now. Stiles shuffles forward a little and hears the ice groan underneath his feet.

“Stiles,” Tracy says breathlessly.

There’s another crack and an entire chunk of the ice gives way. Tracy disappears into the inky black water.

“Shit, Tracy - ” Stiles takes another step forward, and it’s a step too many. The ice underneath him opens up, and he’s suddenly in cold water up to his shoulders. Only the fact that he was closer to shore saves him from going all the way under; his feet can touch the bottom. None of which occurs to him in the moment. He lets out a shrill yelp as he’s nearly submerged in the freezing water. He flails and splashes for a few moments before he manages to grab the edge of the ice where it’s still solid and drag himself onto it.

His entire body is shaking, practically convulsing, from the cold. Distantly, he hears the gong sound. Tracy is gone.

The portal opens up in front of him. He claws his way towards it on his hands and elbows, his comparatively functioning arms dragging the back half of himself along. It takes a few minutes, but he manages to get himself through, and lands on the barracks floor with a thud.

“Oh my God, Stiles,” Allison says, kneeling beside him. She rolls him onto his back as he shudders, then looks around for help. “Can someone give me a hand here?” she shouts, and a couple of the werewolf guards laugh.

“I’ve got him.” It’s Peter’s voice, and Stiles finds himself being scooped up into the werewolf’s arms. “Marin, if you wouldn’t mind - ”

Stiles doesn’t know what Peter is asking for, or who Marin is, but moments later he’s on a different floor and Peter is stripping him out of his wet clothes. He wants to say something, but his teeth are chattering too hard to talk. “It’s all right, I’ve got you,” Peter says in a low voice. Stiles can barely comprehend what’s happening beyond that something warm, too warm to be comfortable, is pressing up against him. He realizes a moment later that it’s skin, that it’s Peter. The werewolf is like an oven, pressed up against him and dragging blankets over them to contain the warmth. Stiles whimpers a little. “You’re all right,” Peter repeats, still calm. “Just try to relax.”

Stiles tries. Gradually, the shivering stops, although he still can’t feel much below his knees. His entire body aches, and he groans a little as he tries to pull his feet up closer to him. He feels Peter’s hand on his arm, and the pain starts to drain away. It’s the most wonderful feeling he’s ever experienced, sending waves of gentle euphoria washing through him. He closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter wakes up with his face buried in the crook of Stiles’ neck, and it jolts him back to full consciousness. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, had wanted to stay awake to monitor Stiles’ condition. But after Stiles had warmed up, the feeling of another body against his, the scent of him, had lulled Peter right to sleep. He didn’t want to admit to that, but it was true.

He also didn’t want to admit to the way his heart had leapt into his throat when he had seen Stiles go through the ice. Two seconds previous he had been cursing up a storm at the human, at him trying to help Tracy off the ice – what sort of idiotic thing to do was that? What would he have done if he had succeeded? Stood there in the snowstorm until one of them had frozen to death? Or gotten murdered by Tracy, if she hadn’t felt she owed him for the save?

It was stupid. _He_ was stupid. And Peter is stupid for getting attached to him, for seeing a kindred spirit in him. Stiles isn’t like him at all. Stiles is a genuinely good person, and it’s going to get him killed. He should have seen it, should have realized from his attachment to Allison, that this was never going to work. But he hadn’t, and it was too late to back out now. At least, it was too late to back out on the wager.  About his feelings, well, Peter’s decided he’s going to pretend he doesn’t have them. That’s usually the best way to deal with feelings, as far as he can tell. He had hidden away all the guilt and pain he felt at Talia’s death, all the rage at what the alphas had done to her children. And it had worked. It had kept him alive, kept all of them alive. So what if he has feelings for Stiles? Nobody ever has to know.

Which means he should probably get out of bed. He pushes the blankets back and gets up, then tucks them back around Stiles – for warmth, of course, not out of affection. He uses the bathroom tucked away in the corner and then goes over to the kettle. The den is empty except for the two of them. He glances at the clock and sees that it’s late afternoon. He needs to start thinking about what to do for dinner.

A few minutes later, the curtain to the main hall pushes open and Laura comes in. “Hey, Uncle Peter,” she says as she comes inside. Then she stops and frowns, detecting the unfamiliar scent and heartbeat. Her gaze tracks immediately to where Stiles is wrapped in the blankets. “What is _he_ doing here?”

“He nearly froze to death during the sixth game. I had to get him somewhere safe where I could warm him up.” Peter looks over from where he’s boiling water for tea. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

“I _am_ worried,” Laura says. “He looks dead.”

“He’s not.” Peter directions his attention back to his tea. “We’ve got to be two thirds of the way through or more by now. He’s doing very well.”

Laura rubs both hands over her face. “Nearly freezing to death is considered ‘doing very well’. Okay.” She shakes her head. “I just came back for some things. I’m going to be serving the twins’ pack tonight. Derek and Cora are staying with Satomi. You’ll be all right here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Peter says. He sees Stiles stirring, woken by the noise. “Don’t take any shit from those two.”

“I’ll take as much shit as is required and not an ounce more,” Laura tells him, before grabbing her spare pair of shoes and leaving.

Peter pours the boiling water into two mugs and walks back over to the bed. Stiles has settled down some, but by the time the tea has cooled and Peter is halfway through his dinner, he’s stirring again. “Where’m I,” he mumbles.

“You’re in our den,” Peter says. “I figured you’d rather be stripped naked and aggressively cuddled in private.”

Stiles gives a snort and tries to sit up, then groans. “Oh, God, I hurt.”

“The ice scraped you up pretty badly, and you probably pulled every muscle in your body in the cold,” Peter says. He helps Stiles sit and props him up with a few pillows. “Here, sip this.”

Stiles nods and takes a drink. “That’s good.”

“Never had it before?” Peter asks, and Stiles shakes his head. “Consider yourself honored. I guard my tea zealously.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, not really looking at him as he continues to sip. Peter leaves him to it, pulling the blankets back to look at his feet. They’ve gone from bluish-purple to red, so the blood flow is returning to them. He winces when Peter touches them, so he’s regaining feeling, as well.

“Well, you won’t be the only person who needs some time to recover,” Peter says, tucking his feet back in. “We should have two or three days before the next trial. In any case, you shouldn’t walk on those until they’ve healed, so you’ll have to stay here tonight.”

Stiles still just nods and says, “Uh huh.”

Peter arches an eyebrow at him. “The appropriate response is ‘you’re welcome’.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles retorts. “I hate you.” He practically chokes on the word. “I fucking _hate_ you, you son of a bitch, I hate all of you, I hate - ” The words dissolve into a shuddering sob.

“You hate me for saving your life?” Peter asks, genuinely puzzled.

“The only reason you’re helping me is to help yourself,” Stiles says. He looks up at Peter for the first time, and Peter does see it there, the raw hatred in Stiles’ expression. He’s seen it so many times on his own face. “You said it yourself. A relationship of mutual benefit. You don’t care about me, you don’t care about any of us, and you - you didn’t have to see Tracy die. She was only sixteen and she was so scared. She was scared and I wanted to help her. I didn’t want to kill her.” He bites out another sob. “I should be grateful that I didn’t have to, but instead I’m just - I just feel like I’m drowning. I hate you for helping me, for keeping me alive while the others die. I don’t deserve it more than they do. It isn’t fair. None of it’s fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” Peter says. “But I chose you because you fought to live anyway.”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” Stiles says.

“You have to.”

“No, I don’t,” Stiles says, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I don’t have to and nobody can make me. I’m not saying I won’t. But don’t try to tell me that I don’t have a choice, because I do. That’s the worst part. I could choose to die and save somebody else. But I won’t, because I’m selfish. I’ll keep killing other people so I can live, and at the end I’ll save my family but I won’t save myself. Because the, the me that left camp forty-two, he’s dead. He’s not coming back. I might save my dad but I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again, not after what I’ve done.”

“You haven’t done anything that he wouldn’t have done himself,” Peter says. “We’re all just trying to stay alive in this world.”

“This world is the worst.”

“That’s why I want to change it,” Peter says. “That’s why I need you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says. “Don’t fucking manipulate me, you bastard. That’s not what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to help yourself, trying to increase your pack standing so, so what? So your niece doesn’t have to scrub floors and cook dinner for other alphas anymore? Let’s talk about how few fucks I give for your pack’s standing. Saving humans isn’t what this is about for you so don’t try to tell me that it is.”

“My sister died trying to save humans - ”

“I don’t give a fuck what your sister died for!” Stiles shouts, slamming both his fists into Peter’s chest. “Your sister dying doesn’t mean that _you’re_ doing jack shit, now does it? Your sister died and your niece gets pushed around and that sucks for you but pardon me if I’m not sorry for your pain and suffering. You don’t know what suffering is! You don’t know what it’s like to watch your father push himself to work harder and harder, trying to keep your sick mom alive, until he almost falls into a God damned vat of molten steel. You don’t know what it’s like to watch your mother forget who you are as the disease eats her brain, what it’s like for her to decide you’re her enemy and try to hurt you! You don’t know - you don’t know what it’s like to watch your best friend struggling to take each breath, and you, you find this book about how there used to be medicine for that sort of thing, and when you ask for it you end up with three days without food as a punishment. Fuck you! Your sister might have died but you haven’t done anything to help anyone besides yourself! You can go to Hell!”

Peter listens to all of this with a neutral expression while Stiles hits him over and over again, while the words spill out between hiccuping sobs. Finally, when he seems to be done, he says, “Feel better?”

Stiles snuffles a little, but then nods. “Yeah.”

“Good. Finish your tea.”

Stiles nods and takes another swallow, wiping his eyes impatiently. “Are you going to stop helping me?”

“No.” Peter takes the empty mug out of his hands. “You’re not wrong, and I don’t care what you think of me, as long as you’re still willing to fight. Now get some sleep. We can talk more about this in the morning.”

Stiles nods and lies down, but when Peter starts to pull away, he grabs him by the sleeve. “It’s too cold without you.”

“Give me a few minutes to finish my dinner and I’ll be right there.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles wakes up slowly the next morning, and he’s confused for several long moments. The events of the previous day are fuzzy, but he definitely remembers trying to beat the shit out of Peter. That being remembered, it seems odd that he’s curled up in bed with him. He thinks he’s just imagining it at first, but no, that is definitely bare skin against his back.

His brain might be confused, but his dick is demonstrating its cheerful approval of the situation. Stiles groans a little and decides he’d better get out of bed before Peter figures that out. But as soon as he moves, his entire body goes into rebellion. Every muscle is sore. He has to stop and breathe for a minute, while his morning wood wilts in the face of the pain.

“Hurt?” Peter murmurs against his back, and Stiles groans again. He feels Peter wrap a hand around his arm, and the pain starts to fade.

“Oh, wow,” he says, blinking slowly. He doesn’t remember _that_ from yesterday. “Wow. I didn’t know you could do that. Does it make you hurt?”

“Only for a few seconds before the werewolf healing burns it off.” Peter sits up, and Stiles rolls over to see him sitting there, shirtless and rumpled and with the world’s most adorable, out-of-character bedhead. Peter continues to talk, seemingly oblivious to the waves of lust Stiles is feeling. “But it’s important to remember that just because you can’t feel the pain doesn’t mean the injuries aren’t there. You need to take it easy today.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Stiles says. His stomach rumbles. “Uh, but at some point I need to get something to eat.”

Peter nods. “I’m not saying you need to stay in bed. Just that you can’t do any sparring lessons. Either with me, or with Allison. And don’t try to pretend you haven’t been teaching her.”

Stiles shrugs. “So, breakfast?”

Peter climbs out of bed, and Stiles doesn’t even try not to watch his ass as he pulls on a pair of pants and then a shirt. He goes to the other side of the room, and Stiles sees his clothes from the day before hanging on an exposed pipe. Peter feels them to make sure they’re dry before pulling them down and tossing them over to him. Stiles gets dressed as slowly as possible, trying not to move much.

While he’s doing that, Peter is busy at the den’s tiny kitchen. Stiles looks around curiously, now that he’s able to really take in his surroundings. The den is only about five hundred square feet, and there are no windows. Right now only one lamp is lit, so it’s quite dim. He sees swaths of red curtain strung up along the walls, and assume that they separate each wolf’s bunk. The center of the room has a table and chairs, and there are two more comfortable looking chairs closer to the entrance, which is draped with more curtains. The back wall has two bureaus and a bookshelf with more books than he’s ever seen in one place before. Unable to help it, he drifts closer to the bookshelves. It’s a hugely eclectic collection. He sees one shelf of fiction, but most of it seems to be non-fiction. There are books on botany, on psychology, on mechanics, on medicine.

“Where did you get all these?” he asks, as Peter cracks eggs into a skillet.

“Here and there over the years. A lot of them were collected by my mother, and her father before her. I add to the collection when I can.”

“It’s incredible,” Stiles says. “I have a handful at home, but I’ve never seen so many gathered together before.”

“There used to be entire buildings of them,” Peter says. “Libraries. Books on every topic you could imagine. All neatly catalogued so you could get information on anything you wanted.”

“Sounds like Heaven.”

“Mm. I agree. How do you like your eggs?”

“Um . . . cooked?”

Peter gives a little snort and shakes his head. Stiles goes back to ignore him, pulling out a book on history and starting to leaf through. A few minutes later, he’s sitting at the table with a plate of eggs and toast, still trying to read while he eats. Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t get on his case. “You can take it with you, if you want,” he says, as they finish eating. “Give you something to do other than getting pushed around by the others.”

“Oh, thanks,” Stiles says, a little surprised. Peter obviously treasures his books, so he’s flattered. “So, uh . . . any news on the next game?”

“Not yet. And we can’t talk about it here.” Peter stands up and gestures for Stiles to follow him. “Let me know if your legs start to hurt.”

“Okay.” Stiles follows him out of the den and back up to the roof. They both sit with their legs dangling over the side, staring out into the wasteland. A strong wind has kicked up, and the warmth feels good against Stiles’ skin.

“So, about yesterday,” Peter says.

Stiles winces a little. “I, uh, I’m sorry about that. I kind of lost my shit.”

Peter shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t care. Worse things have been said about me, believe me. But I do want to clear up a few points, because if we win this, we’re going to have to live together long-term, and I don’t want to go into that with any misunderstandings.”

Stiles nods. “Okay.”

“Three years ago, my sister – along with most of the rest of my family – were executed for assisting with a rebellion at one of the prison camps. The people in charge got sloppy, put too many former resistance members in one place. I don’t actually know how Talia stumbled upon the plot, but she talked to people I didn’t, so . . .” He shrugs a little. “I wasn’t involved, and if I had been, I would have told her not to do it. It’s not the sort of thing that ends in victory for anybody.

“When Talia was awaiting execution, I asked her why she hadn’t come to me for help. I thought, if I had been there, I could have made sure they succeeded, could have made sure she didn’t get caught. Talia told me it was because she needed me to survive, to take care of her children. She made me promise that no matter what happened, I would keep them safe. Her children were more important to her than her own life.”

Stiles pulls his knees to his chest, thinking of his father, and nods a little.

“I won’t lie to you, Stiles. I don’t care that much about what happens to the humans. It’s an abstract concept to me. You care about people in a way that I simply don’t, and never have. You care about all the other contestants, even though they’re trying to kill you. You care about the slaves in camps you’ve never met. I don’t. But as much as you care for humanity as a whole, I care equally as much for Talia’s children. My family is to me what the world is to you. Can you understand that?”

Stiles nods again. “That’s a lot of love for three people.”

“Yes, it is,” Peter replies. “And being the Omega of Alphas isn’t scrubbing floors and cooking dinner. It’s hard labor, and abuse, and danger. Laura won’t admit it, but I think some of the other alphas have tried to force themselves on her. One of these days, they’ll succeed. I’ve watched her come home with bruises and broken bones, wounds which only other alphas could have inflicted. If it goes on this way, sooner or later she won’t come home at all.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters.

“I have done everything I can to keep these kids alive,” Peter says, “and that’s what I’m going to keep doing. I’ll use everything and every _one_ that I have to, if it can protect them. I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, with another nod. “That’s fair. But . . . I won’t, either. If I’m going to be here long-term, I don’t think I’m going to be very popular.”

Peter barks out a laugh at this. “You have to understand, Stiles, that the game we have to play is a long one. We have to wait for opportunities, like I did with you. I’ve waited three years for the chance to increase our pack standing. When you say I haven’t done anything, you’re not correct. I’ve waited. And watched. And waited. When you play a long game, you have to accept the casualties. You have to accept that thousands, tens of thousands, of people will suffer and probably die while we’re waiting for the opportunity to help millions. It’s not easy. But if you play the game right, the balance will be paid at the end.”

“Is that you saying you’ll help me?” Stiles asks.

Peter shrugs. “You want to help the humans, and to be honest I don’t really care about that. What I care about is making the alphas pay for what they did to my family. Fortunately for both of us, those two goals dovetail nicely.”

Stiles can’t help but smile a little, and says, slowly, “So . . . is that you saying you’ll help me?”

Peter arches an eyebrow at him, but then smirks. “Yes, Stiles, I will help you. As long as you agree to help me.”

“Deal,” Stiles says. “So what’s the plan? Other than me living through the games. You said I’d be part of your pack?”

Peter nods. “Pack standing is based primarily on size, although there’s some jockeying around depending on reputation and connections. If ten packs all have twenty members, the one whose alpha is friends with the Alpha of Alphas will be the highest standing, et cetera. That’s why we’re at the bottom – one alpha and three betas is a pitifully small pack, the smallest possible, in fact. So when I made my wager with Duke – that’s the Alpha of Alphas – we agreed that you and whoever you bring with you will become part of my pack. That’s how it normally happens – whoever sponsors the contestant gets them in the pack afterwards.”

“So if you got me in your pack anyway, as long as you sponsor me, what was the wager even for?”

Peter shrugs a little. “I said that’s what _normally_ happens, not that it’s what _always_ happens. Since we’re the omega pack, it would have been easy for the higher-ranking alphas to say we didn’t deserve you, and take you into their own pack.”

“Okay. What about the winners who weren’t sponsored?”

“Duke took them both. His pack has almost a hundred members now.”

Stiles nods a little, chewing all this over. “Will I still get to bring seven people? That’s how it normally is, right? We choose seven?”

“Yes. Which will bring our pack up to twelve. Which is still quite small, but at least not the smallest. Duke’s an outlier, by the way; the average is probably about fifty.”

“What about Allison? What if she wins, too?”

Peter shrugs. “Duke and I didn’t talk about it. I’d like to say he’d let me take her too, but I doubt he will. One could argue that I’m peripherally sponsoring her, since you’re helping her survive, but Duke is likely to be an ass about it, and I won’t have the leverage to argue.”

“Gambling is a big deal with you guys, huh?”

“Absolutely. It’s one of the primary forms of entertainment. Mainly gambling on fights in the rings, but other things, too. Being accused of welshing on a bet is a serious charge, and your pack standing can drop if you do.”

“You’ve mentioned the rings before. What are those?”

Peter gestures to indicate the space out in front of them and says, “See the tent cities out there? Those are the rings. They’re made up of omega werewolves – werewolves who have been cast out of their packs, or chose not to be included in one. They’re not slaves like the humans are, but they receive limited resources, which they’re forced to fight over.”

“And the werewolves in the settlement bet on the outcome of those fights,” Stiles says. “How charming.”

“Oh, it’s worse than you know. We have plenty to spare; we could absolutely supply the omegas with enough for everybody. But we don’t, because the alphas think gambling on the fights is fun.”

Stiles shakes his head. “And that’s where Talia’s kids will end up if you lose your bet with Duke?”

“Yes. And I’ll be the omega in his pack, which is honestly a worse fate. I’d prefer the rings ten times over.”

“I guess it’s good to know that it’s not just the humans that they treat like shit.”

Peter snorts. “Like I told you. This whole philosophy of the strong tormenting the weak – it’s seeped into almost every aspect of our culture. Honestly, I think it’s overcompensation for the fact that we nearly lost the war. Despite being stronger in almost every way. If it weren’t for the Druids, we would have lost. We just didn’t have the numbers.”

“And still don’t,” Stiles says. “Do you actually have a plan, by the way? For getting back at the alphas?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Peter says, with a slight smirk. “Infighting is incredibly common. This jostling for pack standing, it’s not limited to those at the bottom. The alphas on top are always clawing at each other. Duke’s status is unquestionable – for now. But it’d be easy enough to get the ones at the top fighting. Chip away at his support. Rumors, misinformation, turning them against each other – many a kingdom has fallen for those reasons. But that’s getting a little ahead of ourselves.”

“Yeah, I know. I just wanted to make sure that you had a plan.”

“Your faith in me is heartwarming.”

“Warm this,” Stiles says, flipping him off, but he’s laughing as he does it. Then he yawns, surprisingly himself. “Geez. I could sleep for a week.”

“I doubt you’ll get the chance. But come on, I’ll walk you back to the barracks. When I know more about the seventh game, I’ll let you know.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter is very bloody and very NSFW. =D

 

The next game is going to be a straight one-on-one tournament, the news of which Stiles takes with a groan. Peter shakes his head a little and says, “That’s good news for you – or more accurately, it’s good news for Allison.”

“Yeah?” Stiles sits back up. “Why?”

“There are fewer than thirty contestants left at this point. We’re getting very close to the final game. Since both this and the last game are one-on-one, it’s likely that the last will be a survival game – something that could result in multiple victors.”

“Oh, sweet,” Stiles says. “Bring it on, then.”

They work on Stiles’ fighting skills for several hours. He knows he’s getting stronger in addition to learning new techniques. Peter is getting him plenty of food. It’s the healthiest he’s ever been. He eats another enormous dinner and then goes back to the barracks, where he teaches Allison more of the moves that Peter has been teaching him.

“So what’s up with you and Peter, huh?” Allison asks.

Stiles flushes pink. “What do you mean?”

Allison grins at him. “You know what I mean. You like him.”

“Where in this conversation have I given you that impression?” Stiles asks.

“Besides turning bright pink just now?” Allison smirks. “I’ve heard the words ‘Peter said’ like five hundred times over the past week.”

“Because he’s the only person I’m talking to besides you!”

“Oh, and he has _books_ , and he made you scrambled eggs, and he has really cute hair.”

“I did not say he has cute hair!”

“I said he was intimidating, and you said ‘you should’ve seen him when he got out of bed this morning with his hair all messed up’. You clearly think his hair is cute. Plus, you always watch his ass when he walks away. And you spent the night at his den.”

“Okay, legit, nothing happened the other night,” Stiles says. “I was too sore to _move_ , let alone have sex. God, his hair was so fucking cute in the morning, though.”

Allison giggles. “He watches your ass, too, you know.”

“Does he?” Stiles tries not to sound too hopeful.

“Oh, yeah. Every single time. You could totally get it.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be encouraging me to fuck my werewolf sponsor,” Stiles says thoughtfully, “although I’m not entirely sure why.”

Allison shrugs. “If you survive, you’ll be a werewolf, too, so what does it really matter?”

“I guess that’s true. Maybe I should concentrate on surviving first.”

“Solid plan. Show me how to get out of that chokehold again.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The tournament starts at midday the next day, and it takes forever. As usual, there’s no way to see into the arena. They’re called two at a time, and the minutes drag by. The fights are taking longer than they had the first time, which makes him think that the arena must not be as straightforward.

His number is called over an hour later, along with one hundred and three, and he instantly cringes. One hundred and three is Brunski. It’s not the last person he wants to fight, but it’s close. Brunski and his friends are all laughing as Brunski steps into the portal and vanishes. Stiles takes a few deep breaths, reminding himself of everything Peter has told him, before he does the same.

It’s easy to see why the fights are taking so long. He comes out into a narrow hallway with mirrors on every side. His reflection stares at him from every angle, and he doesn’t see Brunski anywhere. Stiles looks around for anything he might be able to use as a weapon, and there’s nothing. It doesn’t bode well for him. Fighting Brunski would be bad enough as it is, but doing it hand to hand? Even with everything Peter has taught him, he doesn’t think he can win.

He puts a hand on the wall so he’ll know what’s mirror and what’s empty air, and shuffles forward carefully. When he comes around a corner, he sees Brunski. He ducks backwards quickly, then peers around again. The mirrors have black edging at the bottom. He can see that in front of Brunski’s feet. So it’s not Brunski he sees, but a reflection of him, or even a reflection of a reflection.

Brunski isn’t as quick on the uptake. His reflection charges forward, and from somewhere in the arena, Stiles hears a crash, then Brunski swearing.

He continues to edge down the narrow path, with one hand on the wall to his left and one in front of him. He nearly pisses himself when he ends up with one of Brunski’s reflections only a foot away. He’s just around the corner, Stiles realizes, and he’s facing away. He ducks around to check, trying to keep his smaller form hidden behind Brunski’s bulk.

The best move he can think of is to jump on him from behind and get his arms around Brunski’s throat. That won’t work here. Brunski will just throw himself backwards and smash Stiles through one of the mirrors. He’s going to have to be more clever than that. He puts one hand on one of the mirrors and pushes it gently, feels it give. These aren’t walls, they aren’t stable. He waits until Brunski has gone around a corner, then slams his shoulder against the mirror Brunski just ducked around. It crashes over Brunski and shatters, and he gives a loud bellow.

It knocks him down, but it’s not enough to kill him. He lands hard on his back in a pool of shattered glass. Stiles grabs the metal frame of the mirror and brings it down on Brunski, but he rolls out of the way in time, then pushes himself back to his feet. Stiles had almost forgotten how fast he was, that he wasn’t slow like some of the other musclebound contestants. He grabs the frame as Stiles swings it again, wrenching it out of his hands. Stiles lets go to avoid being pulled closer to Brunski, who throws it aside and then charges forward like an enraged bull. Stiles ducks to one side, around the corner, and Brunski throws himself _through_ one of the mirrors and onto Stiles.

Stiles goes down in a heap, and scrambles to get free. He’s only barely made it to his feet when Brunski grabs him by both ankles and pulls hard. Stiles lets out a yelp despite himself as he’s yanked off his feet. He flails instinctively, but there’s no way for him to catch his balance. The back of his head slams into another mirror, and he collapses to the floor, only partly conscious.

“Got you, you little brat,” Brunski says, rolling Stiles onto his back. “God, I’ve been looking forward to this. I really wanted to get your number in the last game. This one’s good, though. You’ve hit the end of the line.”

Stiles tries to reply, but his head is spinning and he can’t think. He manages to open his eyes and sees Brunski picking up a shard of glass.

“I’m not gonna kill you fast, though,” Brunski says. “That’d just be a waste. I’ve got time. You don’t have any plans for the rest of the day, right?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles mumbles.

Brunski’s face darkens. “I think I’ll start by cutting out your tongue. What do you think of that?” He presses the point of the glass shard into Stiles’ cheek. “Then maybe you’d shut up for once.”

“I’d bleed to death,” Stiles says, although the words are somewhat slurred. “Real quick. Tongues bleed.”

“Do they?” Brunski draws the glass down Stiles’ cheek and then his neck, leaving a line of burning fire behind it. “Guess I’ll start here, instead. Maybe I’ll carve my name in your stomach. I’ve always thought it was a shame that they don’t return the bodies to their families. Can you picture that? Your family getting your body back, seeing the name of your killer etched into it.”

Stiles focuses on breathing, on managing the pain. He’s surrounded by broken glass, by weapons. He just needs to be able to get to one. Brunski taking his time is good, but Stiles still has to keep him distracted. “Thinking like that . . . you must’ve been glad to come here.”

“I’ve had the time of my life,” Brunski says, digging the glass a little bit deeper into Stiles’ skin. Stiles lets out a grunt despite himself, his fingers closing around a shard of glass that’s about the size he needs. “And when I’m a werewolf, things will be even better. I’ll be able to kill anyone I want, any time.”

“Stop,” Stiles says, and he reaches up with his left hand to try to push Brunski away. “Please.”

“Yeah, beg for your life, you cowardly piece of shit. I’m gonna slice you up like – ”

Stiles waits until Brunski is focused on pushing his left hand back down. He brings his right hand up as hard as he can, driving the shard of glass into Brunski’s throat. He makes a choking, gagging noise, and Stiles twists the piece of glass as he pulls it free, tearing the wound open. Blood gushes down onto Stiles’ face, and Brunski falls forward, on top of him, his body convulsing.

The gong sounds. Stiles just lays there for a minute, honestly not sure which one of them was just declared dead. Gradually, he realizes he can see the portal next to him. He shoves Brunski’s body off himself with shaking hands, and stumbles through it. The barracks are sparsely populated, and a few people give him guarded looks as he stumbles towards the water pitchers.

“You’re a mess, aren’t you,” Peter greets him, before he can make it there. There’s a note of tension, possibly even concern, in his voice.

Stiles can only manages a shaky nod and a hoarse, “Yeah.” Then something occurs to him, and he frowns. “Do you watch us in real time?”

“Of course. How else would I know if you needed me to save your ass afterwards, like you did last time?” Peter waves this aside. “Your wounds are superficial, but still need tending. Come with me.”

“Can I clean up first?”

“I’d rather tend your wounds first, and we can’t do that here.”

Stiles nods and sighs, following Peter out of the barracks. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, everything hurts. He just wants to lie down and sleep for a hundred years. He has a suspicion that Peter wants the other werewolves to see him covered in blood and victorious. It will probably create quite an impression.

He ends up back at the Hales’ den. Peter sits him down and has him take off his shirt, or what’s left of it. He gives Stiles a bag of ice to hold against the back of his head, and examines the injuries in a business-like manner. “Shallow,” he says, and he applies some sort of ointment to them. It seals the wounds and stops the bleeding. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two,” Stiles says.

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. You probably don’t have a concussion, then.” Peter gets a spare piece of fabric and dips it in water before he starts wiping Stiles’ face off. “You gave me quite a scare there.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles. “Guess we’re lucky that Brunski was a fucking sadist.”

“Mm,” Peter says, continuing to clean Stiles’ face. “Let’s try not to repeat the experience.”

“You sound like you were really worried about me.”

“Your death would be very inconvenient for me.”

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to think you like me or something,” Stiles says. Peter arches an eyebrow at him, and it’s somehow the sexiest thing Stiles has ever seen. He lunges forward without thinking, mashing his mouth against Peter’s in the world’s most ungainly kiss. He nearly knocks them over, but Peter grabs the table with one hand, keeping his balance. The next thing Stiles knows, he’s in Peter’s lap, kissing him with desperate enthusiasm, and Peter’s hands are on his ass, pulling him closer.

Stiles doesn’t pull away until he’s out of breath and panting. Peter doesn’t need to catch his breath, apparently, because he leans in and starts mouthing at the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles moans a little, his hands gripping hard at the back of Peter’s shirt. Peter gets his hands underneath Stiles’ thighs and lifts him up, half-carrying him the ten feet to the bed and spilling him down onto it.

“So I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you _do_ like me,” Stiles says, as Peter gets onto the bed with him, one knee on either side of Stiles’ legs.

“You talk too much,” Peter says, and kisses him again. Stiles kisses back with everything he’s worth, grabbing the hem of Peter’s shirt and stripping it over his head. Peter tosses it to one side and leans back in to the crook of Stiles’ neck, nipping at the skin there. Stiles lets out a little gasp despite himself. “Have you done this before?” Peter murmurs into his throat.

“What? Which part?” Stiles manages, and he can practically hear Peter roll his eyes. “Uh, sex, not really. I mean, I’ve made it to second base with a few guys. I’m not, you know, totally inexperienced, I just - oh, fuck, that feels really good,” he stammers, as Peter’s teeth tug at his earlobe. “Are you gonna make a big deal out of me being a virgin?”

“No. I’m happy to be your first.” Peter pulls back far enough to slide Stiles’ pants down, his gaze traveling up and down Stiles’ body in interest. “I can touch you in ways that nobody ever has before.”

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles says faintly, as Peter’s hands trace over his hips and thighs. “Yeah, okay. You, you can start doing that literally any time now - ”

Peter gives a little snort. He stops long enough to get rid of the rest of his clothes, and Stiles can’t help but stare. Peter is well-built in more ways than one, and he smirks when he sees Stiles staring at him. “Like what you see?”

“Get the fuck back down here and go back to kissing me,” Stiles demands.

Peter outright laughs at that, and surprises Stiles by obeying. He lowers his body down so their hips fit together like magic, and Stiles has to break off the kiss so he can tell the ceiling, “Fucking _fuck_ that feels good!” Peter laughs again, sucking marks into Stiles’ collarbone and letting Stiles grind against him. “Oh fuck,” Stiles breathes out, and he knows he should slow down but he can’t. “This, this is gonna get really embarrassing really fast - ”

“Is it?” Peter asks, smirking again, and leans down to suck hard at one of Stiles’ nipples.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Stiles proclaims, and comes so hard that he sees stars. He can feel, more than hear, Peter chuckling against his chest. “Stop laughing at me, you bastard,” he manages to mutter.

“You’re adorable,” Peter tells him. “And loud. I do like it when my partners are loud. I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming my name for the whole settlement to hear.”

“Kinky,” Stiles says, unable to help it. Peter is still making those little marks on his chest, and he’s starting to get a little sore. Stiles thinks about saying something, but then gets a hand underneath Peter’s chin, pulling it up a little so he can steal another kiss. One kiss becomes two becomes five, each one lingering. Stiles gets up the courage to trace his hands over Peter’s back and chest, looking for the inevitable sensitive spots. Peter’s not loud, the way he is, but Stiles can feel his muscles tense whenever he finds one.

He’s so entranced by that, that he doesn’t really notice Peter fumbling around by the side of his bed for something. He just keeps kissing him while Peter pushes his legs apart. He feels Peter press a finger into him and lets out a sharp gasp, his body tensing up automatically.

“Relax,” Peter murmurs, his other hand coming up to rub his thumb over Stiles’ lips. Stiles bites at it playfully, and Peter smirks at him. “Okay?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, and squirms a little, trying to make himself comfortable. It still feels a little weird, but Peter’s spreading something slick that helps ease things along. Stiles tilts his head back and actually does manage to relax a bit. Peter keeps him well distracted by continuing to press kisses into his shoulders and chest. It starts to feel less weird and more good, and before long Stiles is moaning and trying to get more. “Oh my God, you’re taking _forever_ , come on, you’re not going to break me – ”

“Trust me, you’d be grateful if you knew the alternative,” Peter says, sounding amused. “A virgin ass and a big cock don’t go well together.”

“Oh, you think it’s big?” Stiles snickers despite himself. “You’re always so impressed with yourself.”

“Are you saying it’s not?” Peter asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen better,” Stiles replies, grinning at him. “Not much privacy in the barracks, you know.”

At this, Peter grabs him underneath the knees and tugs him down so they’re face to face, leaning in to bite at Stiles’ lips. “We’ll see how big you think it is once it’s inside you,” he says, and Stiles groans despite himself. He can feel the head of Peter’s cock pressing against him, and there’s a little spike of apprehension. Joking aside, he _is_ a lot bigger than a lot of the men Stiles has seen. He tries to relax as Peter pushes inside him, a little bit at a time, and grips Peter’s shoulders hard.

Peter stops just an inch into Stiles, and studies him carefully. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, trembling a little.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh huh. Just take it slow.”

Peter smirks at him. “So it _is_ big.”

“I’m so glad we’re having this conversation while you’re – _fuck_!” Stiles gasps out, as Peter pushes further into him. He tilts his head back and moans despite himself. “Oh my God, Peter, fuck.”

“I’m getting there,” Peter says, but his tone is more serious now, and he leans in to nuzzle at the crook of Stiles’ neck, letting him have a few moments to adjust. Stiles takes a few deep breaths, tilting his head to one side to give Peter better access to his throat. Peter gives a low growl, but the noise is more pleased than anything else. He nips at the sensitive skin there, rocking against him slowly, going a little deeper on each thrust. Stiles twines a hand through Peter’s hair, the other gripping at the bedsheets, and loses himself in it completely. For the first time in weeks, he forgets about the sense of impending doom, forgets about werewolves and war. The only thing that exists is Peter. The scent of him, the feeling of his mouth, of his cock, the way Peter’s name falls off his lips. He says it louder and louder as Peter fucks him harder and faster, and shouts it to the ceiling as he comes.

Either a few minutes or several centuries later, he regains his wits and mumbles, “So, that. That was. Yeah.”

“Mm hm,” Peter says, one finger tracing along Stiles’ collarbone. He sounds a little amused. “In a good way, I hope.”

Stiles doesn’t bother to open his eyes. “Boy, you just love fishing for compliments.”

Peter huffs out a laugh before nipping at Stiles’ ear. “Yes, I do.”

“Did you, uh . . . you know, was I . . .” Stiles can’t quite bring himself to finish the question. He half-expects Peter to make fun of him just for asking.

Instead, what Peter says is, “You’re magnificent,” and Stiles flushes dark pink. Peter rubs a thumb over Stiles’ cheekbone and says, “It’s like you were made for me. In more ways than one. But including this one. I’ve got plenty more to teach you, don’t worry.”

Still blushing, Stiles says, “Mmkay,” and lets Peter kiss him. It’s not a passionate kiss like earlier, but slow and deliberate, comfortable even.

“Once you’ve won the games, you’ll be part of this pack,” Peter murmurs against his neck. “You’ll stay here with me. We’ll fuck all night and destroy the alphas all day. Sound good?”

“Sounds amazing,” Stiles agrees. “The life I never knew I wanted.”

Peter gives a quiet snort of laughter. “Me too. I never thought I would meet anyone like you . . . anyone I would respect as an equal, after my sister died. But you . . . are everything I ever could have dreamed of. And that’s enough compliment fishing for both of us. I need to make a study of your moles with my tongue.”

“Oh _hell_ yes,” Stiles says, and Peter rolls them over, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Peter wakes up, it’s to the sound of voices and the smell of food. Stiles is still asleep beside him, sprawled out and mouth hanging open rather unattractively in his sleep. Peter smirks a little, pleased with how he’s worn him out, before climbing out of bed and pushing the curtain aside. His nieces and nephew are gathered around breakfast, and Laura greets him with ‘good morning’. He yawns and pulls on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt before heading over to make tea.

He pours two mugs, and this turns out to be mistake, because as soon as Derek sees that, he blurts out, “You’re sharing your _tea_ with him? You never share your tea with _us_.”

“You don’t like tea,” Peter points out. “I’ve tried on several occasions to introduce you to it.”

“It’s too bitter,” Derek says, “and that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Peter asks, puzzled but also amused.

“His point is that we were all like ‘oh, Uncle Peter’s nailing his new boytoy,’ but if you’re sharing your tea with him, he is _not_ a boytoy,” Laura says.

Peter gives a little snort, and he’s thinking of something truly pithy to say when he hears Stiles stirring. He glances over his shoulder as he sits up in bed, rubbing a hand over his rumpled hair. “Good morning. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, starved.” Stiles climbs out of bed, then sees the other three werewolves and lets out a squawk, grabbing the curtain and dragging it shut. “The fuck, Peter!”

“What?” Peter asks, amused. “You knew they lived here. Where did you think they were going to sleep last night?”

“You should warn me before I get out of bed stark naked!”

“You were just saying last night that there’s no privacy at the barracks,” Peter points out. “What’s it matter?”

Stiles mumbles something about how it’s different, and emerges a few moments later wearing his pants from the day before along with Peter’s discarded shirt. He doesn’t quite look at any of them as he walks over to the table, although he does say, “Uh, hi.”

“Good morning,” Laura offers, smiling at him. “I’m Laura. This is Derek, and Cora.”

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles says. He’s still blushing as Peter hands him the mug of tea. Peter leans in for a kiss, which Stiles allows, but he pulls back before it can get serious. “Sorry for the, uh, you know . . .”

Three blank faces greet him, and it’s clear to Peter that his niblings _don’t_ know. “Humans are incredibly uptight about sex,” he tells them, and Stiles’ blush darkens. “It would actually take a very long time to explain why, because it goes back centuries into the general oppression of women and religion as a tool to control the world. Although there _was_ a time when promiscuity was a bad idea because there were no treatments for STDs yet and you didn’t want your dick to fall off, but that’s kind of a separate issue. In any case, humans tend to find it embarrassing to acknowledge that sex is a thing that most of them take part in regularly and enjoy.” He shrugs a little, then turns to Stiles, “Werewolves are not nearly so Puritanical. Part of that is because of the enhanced senses, particularly smell. We all know exactly who is having sex, and when, and with who. So there’s really no point in treating it as anything other than the extracurricular activity that it is.”

“Got it,” Stiles says, and he’s still blushing, but at least he’s reaching for a plate. He’s only just grabbed it when something occurs to him, and he drops it. “Oh my God! I don’t even know if Allison survived the seventh game, I have to go – ”

“Softly, softly,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Allison is fine. I checked on her after you fell asleep last night.”

Stiles looks a little suspicious. “Did you really?”

“It’d be pretty stupid to say so if I hadn’t, wouldn’t it?” Peter replies. “If I guessed, it’d be a fifty-fifty shot, and if I guessed wrong, you’d be mighty pissed.”

“I would be,” Stiles agrees. “So did you really?”

Peter gives him a sideways smile and says, “Yes, I really did. Or actually, Laura did. I asked if she could go check on that as well as finding out if there were any details available on the eighth game.”

“Oh. Got it. Thank you,” Stiles adds, directing to Laura.

“No problem.” Laura is smiling. “God, you two make a good match. Watching you banter is kind of . . .”

“Hilarious,” Derek agrees.

“Disgusting,” Cora says, her noise wrinkling.

“I was gonna go with ‘voyeuristic’,” Laura says.

“Which is disgusting,” Cora agrees.

Stiles snorts and says, “I thought you said you guys weren’t uptight about sex.”

“We aren’t, so just have it already,” Derek mutters.

“You know,” Peter says, leaning in to press kisses along the length of Stiles’ throat, “that actually seems like an excellent idea.”

“I’m trying to have breakfast,” Stiles tells him.

Peter rests his hand on Stiles’ thigh and rubs up and down, slowly. “You can keep eating. I’ll just be over here, doing my own thing.”

“Well, on that note, we’re leaving,” Laura says, laughing. “Because we might not be uptight about sex, but that doesn’t mean we want to listen to it. But honestly it would be impossible to get anything done. Besides, I’ve got things to do. Come on, Cora, Derek. We’ll see you guys later.”

Stiles continues eating his eggs while the three werewolves leave, and Peter continues to caress his thigh.

“You know what I want to do?” Peter asks, tracing his fingers over the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles makes a questioning noise, through a mouthful of food. “I want to mark you. Right here.” His fingers move in a small circle on the back of Stiles’ neck. “So everyone can see that you belong to me.”

“Belong? Really?” Stiles asks.

“There isn’t really a good term for it in human,” Peter says, pressing his mouth against the spot but not biting down. “Marking you lets other werewolves know that you’re . . . attached. That someone has claimed your interest. It’s not a mark of ownership, but more of a mark of partnership.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, but he leans back into Peter’s touch.

“Is that a yes?” Peter asks.

Sounding somewhat surprised, Stiles says, “You’re actually asking for my permission?”

“I am,” Peter says, and doesn’t elaborate.

“Huh.” Stiles chews on that thoughtfully for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Mark away.”

Peter leans in and gives a sharp little nip to the joint of Stiles’ shoulder where it meets his neck. It’s firm enough to hurt, but not to break the skin. He does this several times, licking the spot afterwards as if in apology, until he’s left a sizable bruise on the side of Stiles’ neck and shoulder. By then, he’s moved so he’s sitting behind Stiles, his hands tracing up and down his stomach and chest, and Stiles has forgotten about breakfast.

Then, out of the blue, Stiles says, “Wait a sec,” and Peter rather reluctantly pulls away. “You can’t mark other werewolves, right? They’d just heal.”

“That’s correct,” Peter says.

“So this is a tradition back from when humans and werewolves got together more often.”

“Also correct.”

“Will the other werewolves know what it means, then?”

“Oh, they’ll know,” Peter says, leaning back in to mouth at the spot. “Believe me, they’ll know.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

“Holy shit, Stiles,” Allison says, practically folding in half with laughter when she sees Stiles come back into the barracks. “You must have had a good time.”

“Excuse you, I had a _fantastic_ time,” Stiles says, and smirks at her. “I had a fantastic time _all day_.”

“I can tell,” Allison says, still laughing. “Did your sponsor have anything useful to say? About, you know, the eighth game and such?”

“He hasn’t heard anything about it yet.” Stiles becomes aware that the other contestants are giving him a wide berth. “What’s with them?”

Allison rolls her eyes slightly, and lowers her voice a little. “Stiles . . . you killed _Brunski_. Everyone’s suddenly wondering how badly they’ve underestimated you and whether or not they should team up and beat you to death just to take you out of the running.”

“Oh, that. I guess it didn’t seem like much to me, since he really kicked my ass. If he hadn’t decided he’d rather torture me to death than slit my throat and have done with it, I definitely wouldn’t be here right now. But he was so busy trying to remember how to spell his own name so he could carve it in my gut that I managed to take him off guard.”

“That sounds like Brunski,” Allison says.

“Yeah. How about you, who’d you get?”

“Ugh, I had that behemoth from ninety-nine. Had to stab him like, ninety-nine time before he’d stay down.”

“Huh.” Stiles considers this for a minute. “We’re becoming too blasé about this, aren’t we.”

Allison shrugs a little and says, “Better than the alternative.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.” Stiles is about to say something else, about how there are probably only one or two games left and if they’re lucky they’ll be survival games, when Ennis walks behind them. He gives him the usual scowl, but then stops dead and stares at Stiles.

“What is _that_ ,” Ennis says, yanking Stiles’ shirt down. “Where did you get that bruise?”

“Hey, get your hands off me,” Stiles says, trying to squirm free. “Why does it surprise you that I’ve got scars and bruises everywhere when the literal reason I’m here is to get murdered?”

“That’s not from your fight with Brunski,” Ennis says. “That’s a mating mark.”

Stiles takes a brief second to think about how Peter has a really interesting way of phrasing things, before saying, “What’s your point?”

Ennis lets him go and shoves him down onto his bed. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “Both of you. Traitors to your own kind. That whole pack is nothing but filthy, human-loving trash. They should all be put to sleep.”

“Gee, it’s almost like I asked for your opinion,” Stiles retorts. “I didn’t.”

Ennis sneers at him. “You think getting chosen by Hale was a good thing? You think getting _fucked_ by him was a good thing? I’ve got news for you. Even if you survive this – which you won’t – and Hale wins his bet – which he won’t – your life won’t be any better here than it was as a slave. I’ll make sure of that personally.”

Stiles gets back to his feet. “I _am_ going to survive, and when I do, Peter _will_ win his bet, and fucking welshers like you will have to kiss his ass.”

Ennis swings at him, but Stiles ducks and grabs the chair he had been sitting in. He holds it up to deflect Ennis’ next blow, and it shatters, splinters of wood going everywhere. Ennis howls in pain, attracting the attention of everyone in the room who wasn’t already watching. “Call me a welsher again and you won’t make it to the eighth game,” Ennis growls.

“I know you tried to welsh after I won the third game,” Stiles retorts. “I know that you and your girlfriend didn’t respect the terms of the bet and kept giving Laura omega duties even though the results of the bet said you shouldn’t. I’ll call you whatever I damned well please. So watch yourself, Ennis, because if you think Peter’s forgotten that, he hasn’t. And if you think we’re going to put up with it after I win this – because I _will_ win this – you’ve got another think coming. Which, given that this is you, I’m going to assume you won’t use.”

Ennis is clearly about to take another swing, but Kali grabs his arm. Her eyes are crimson, but her expression is calm. “Not here, Ennis,” she says. “Not now.”

Scowling, Ennis lets his arm drop. He turns and walks away, with Kali behind him.

“Well, that was pretty stupid,” Allison says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Felt good, though.”

Allison shakes her head, but she’s laughing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Although he hasn’t discussed it with Stiles, Peter has been using his free time to watch everyone’s performance in the games. Having a grasp of the other contestants’ strengths and weaknesses is valuable information, and he doesn’t want to pass up even the slightest chance that it could help. Unfortunately, this means he has to spend a great deal of time in the game headquarters, reviewing all the footage. He’s still there, watching the other fights that had taken place after Stiles’ with Brunski, when Kali saunters in. She gets a drink at the bar before seeing him and walking over.

“Aren’t you going to go see the eighth game?” she asks, and smirks at him. “We set it up special for you.”

Peter gives her a cautious look. “I’m sponsoring someone. I should know about the game at least a day ahead of time.”

Kali gives an elegant shrug. “Gee, I guess someone must have forgotten to pass the message along. I’m sure your little boy will be fine, though. I mean, he’s already survived seven games . . . what’s one more?”

Peter’s already walking away by the time she’s finished with her first sentence. He doesn’t break into a jog until she’s out of sight, and even then, it takes effort not to break into a full run. He doesn’t want the others to see him panicking, even though that’s what he feels like doing.

When he gets to the barracks, there are still about two dozen people standing there. He finds Stiles and resists the urge to grab him and kiss him breathless. “You’re still here. I – ”

“Line up!” Ennis shouts, and Peter looks over to see a mile wide grin on his face. He was waiting for Peter to show up. “The eighth game will now begin!”

“You cheating piece of shit,” Peter says. “All sponsors are supposed to know about the games twenty-four hours in advance – how do you think Deucalion will feel if he finds out that you’re interfering with his wager with me?”

Ennis shrugs and says, “Like Duke will give a shit what you think. He’d rather win the bet, wouldn’t he? So what does he care if I swing it in his direction?”

“He’ll care when I get through with him – ”

Ennis turns away. “Time to go!” he shouts, and starts herding the contestants through the portal. Over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t worry, Peter – we’ve got it all rigged up so you get to watch. Enjoy the show!”

Peter turns back to Stiles, but the teenager only looks at him briefly before going through the portal. A few moments later, the room is empty.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles shifts from foot to foot as he waits, trying not to betray his nerves. He’s reminded himself repeatedly that he got through the first three trials without Peter’s help, and that the physical training he’s been getting isn’t going to go away just because he doesn’t know what the specific task is. They’re being called one at a time, so whatever it is, they’re not fighting each other. It’s not a long trial, either – they’re being called at about ten minute intervals. As the minutes drag by, he has a sinking feeling that he’s going to be called last. The numbers are called at random, in theory, but it would be easy enough for them to just leave him until the end. Whatever this task is, they want Peter to have to watch _everyone_ go through, want to make him wait and worry over how Stiles is going to survive.

When the room is finally empty, Ennis smirks at him and says, “You’re up, forty-two,” and shoves him through the portal.

It’s the same arena as the third trial, when they faced the golem. But there’s no golem now, no table of weapons. Just a wooden pole and a heavy scent of smoke and burning flesh. Stiles recognizes that smell from a time at the mill when someone had been badly burned. He has to take a deep breath to steady himself as he’s pushed over to the pole. Ennis locks handcuffs around his wrist so he’s fastened to the pole. The chain is long, so much so that he could probably lean all the way back and hit the ground. He looks up and estimates that the pole is probably about fifteen feet high and at least two feet in diameter.

“Your goal is to get free!” Ennis shouts at him, and there’s laughter in his voice.

“That’s it?” Stiles asks warily.

“That’s it!” Ennis replies, and then the ground erupts into flames in a ring around him. Stiles yelps despite himself and immediately starts yanking at the chain on instinct, even though he knows it won’t come free. He has to stop and force himself to calm down and assess his situation. The flames are about two feet away, and he’s sure they’ll close in. He’s not going to wait and watch to see if that actually happens.

He pulls back hard against the chain, hoping he can squeeze one of his wrists through, but it doesn’t happen. Then he drops down to his knees and starts digging at the base of the pole. If it’s only shallowly buried, he might be able to get underneath it. That would be easier than going over. But a minute later, he’s come to the conclusion that it won’t work. The pole is at least a few feet underground, and he’ll never get it destabilized before the fire gets to him.

If he can’t go under, he has to go over. The chain isn’t long enough to just throw it over the top – that solution would be way too obvious – but it is long enough that he can get the soles of his feet against the pole. He pulls the chain taut, grasping it firmly, and leans back. This puts his back right above the fire, and much too close for comfort. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the flames licking at his skin.

It takes several minutes longer than he would like to get the rhythm down. When he tries to jerk the chain up, half the time it either doesn’t move or falls back down. He moves slowly, one foot at a time. He briefly considers wrapping his legs around the pole and scooting up that way, but the wood is rough and he doesn’t relish the idea of a crotch full of splinters. This way will work, even if it’s slow. He has to keep the chain pulled hard; his hands are raw and bleeding and his arms are starting to tremble. But the fire below him provides enormous incentive. He makes his way up the pole in short, careful steps.

When he gets to the top, he realizes that the splinters would have been worth it. When the chain comes off the pole, he’s going to fall the fifteen feet to the ground. But there’s no help for it now. He can’t take his feet off the pole without losing his balance. He’ll just have to grit his teeth and do it.

He jerks the chain one last time. It slips up over the top of the pole and just like that, he’s falling. He lands on his back hard, in the middle of the fire. The scream is completely involuntary as he shoves himself up to his knees and out of the flames. Then he drops to the ground and rolls around to extinguish them. He ends panting for breath, nearly choking on it, but alive.

The portal opens and he goes through it, stepping into the barracks on legs that are as wobbly as a newborn foal’s. There are about a dozen people left, all of them sooty and disheveled. He sees Allison, one hand cradled to her chest.

“Congratulations on surviving the eighth game,” Ennis says, and he’s still laughing.

Stiles wipes his eyes and walks over to Peter. Everything hurts and he wants to break down into tears, but he won’t. Not while the werewolves are watching. “Enjoy the show?” he asks, his voice nonchalant.

“I got a great view of your ass while you were climbing that pole,” Peter replies, and if the smirk on his face isn’t really genuine, nobody besides Stiles can tell.

“Great. How about you take me back to your place and help me clean up?”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Peter says, and gestures for Stiles to take his arm. Stiles does, and they walk out of the barracks. Stiles holds it together, holds it and holds it until Peter pushes aside the curtain and they’re safely in the den. Then he crumbles to the ground, choking out a sob. Peter kneels beside him, smoothing back his hair and then draining some of the pain away. “Better?”

“A little,” Stiles says, trying to regain his composure. The world is starting to go black around the edges. He’s vaguely aware that the others are there, that someone is exclaiming over his injuries, and then he’s being hustled to his feet and put under a shower. Cold, running water is the best thing for burns, he knows that from the mill. It still hurts like hell, and he chokes out another sob as the water runs over his body.

“Easy, easy,” Peter murmurs. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m sorry.”

Stiles tries to take a deep breath and stop crying. “W-What are you s-sorry for?”

“They did this to get to me.” Peter shakes his head. “We can talk about this later. Just try to breathe.”

Stiles nods and rests his weight against Peter, letting Peter hold him up while the water streams over his back. He thinks he passes out while standing up, because the next thing he knows, he’s lying on his stomach in Peter’s bed and someone – presumably Peter – is rubbing ointment onto his back. It stings, and he whimpers despite himself.

“Here, let me,” a quiet voice says, and someone takes his hand. It’s a smaller hand than Peter’s, slender but work-roughened in a way that Peter’s isn’t. “I can take more pain than you can.”

“Thank you, Laura,” Peter says quietly, and Stiles relaxes as the pain starts to fade. He tries to squeeze Laura’s hand in thanks, although he’s not sure whether or not he actually manages it. None of his muscles really seem to be working. As the pain drifts away, so does he.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The pack leaves Peter alone that night, letting him sit by Stiles’ side and brood in silence. They know that they don’t truly understand how he feels, and nobody comments on the matter. It’s not until the next morning that he returns to something like his usual self, cooking breakfast and insisting that they eat. Stiles continues sleeping, and Peter doesn’t bother him.

“What are we going to do?” Laura finally asks. “They’re going to kill him.”

Peter shakes his head. “That was always a risk. Not even thinking about the wager, but just the nature of the games themselves. Not telling me about the game ahead of time was a breach of protocol, but the event itself was completely within the parameters of the games. And there’s only one game left. Yesterday had eleven survivors.”

“But Ennis and Kali are obviously going to come up with something they don’t think Stiles can survive,” Derek says.

“That’s true,” Peter says. “But he’s survived eight games, four of them without any help from me.”

“Besides, what are our options?” Cora asks. “Stiles is gonna compete no matter what we do now.”

“We could leave,” Laura says, glancing at Peter. “Just . . . just take him and go. Uncle Peter, I know you don’t want to lose him. You gave him a _mating bite_ for crying out loud. Nobody could stop us if we just picked up our things and left.”

“And go where?” Peter asks. “We can’t survive outside one of the settlements. It’s doubtful that anybody can.”

“We could find one of the resistance camps,” Derek says. “Maybe we could help them.”

Peter shakes his head. “They wouldn’t accept our help. Not even if I tried to persuade them by telling them about Talia. They’d likely kill us on sight, just for being werewolves. Best case scenario, they’d turn us away and then we’d be on our own. Which in this world, means we’d be dead.”

“So we just stay here?” Laura asks. “We just throw Stiles back into the games?”

“He’d go anyway,” Peter says, cutting his eggs into pieces with his fork. “Even if I thought we had a chance on the outside, he’d never agree to run. His family is still back at camp forty-two, and the five of us couldn’t do a damned thing about that. His mother is dying. If he wins the games, he can save them. That’s been his goal from the beginning. He’s not going to give it up now. Not with only one game left. The odds were against him from the start, and he was well aware of that. Nothing has changed for him.”

“Jesus,” Derek says. “I thought humans weren’t pack animals.”

“They aren’t. But they still love their families, just as much as we do.”

Silence sits for a long minute, before Laura finally says, “So what do we do?”

“Double or nothing,” Stiles mumbles. Everyone turns to see him sitting up in bed, wincing as his burned skin pulls. The blankets pool in his lap, and he doesn’t try to get up. He’s looking only at Peter, as he repeats himself. “We go double or nothing.”

Peter regards him for a moment, then nods slowly. “Allison.”

“Right.” Stiles coughs a little, clearing his throat. Derek gets up and hands him the mug of tea that Peter had brewed for when he woke up. Stiles sips a little. “There’s one game left, and it’ll be a competition, a survival game. With eleven candidates left, it has to be – a one-on-one game would still leave at least five candidates alive.”

“What does that have to do with your friend?” Laura asks.

“If I can get both myself and Allison across the finish line, then you get both of us, and both our families, in your pack.”

Laura’s eyes widen, and Peter can see she’s doing the calculations. Sixteen new pack members, for a total of twenty. It’s still below average, but it would put them a place of security, a place where losing one or two members wouldn’t automatically slide them back into the omega position.

“Ennis won’t let us make that wager,” Derek says.

“Who gives a flying blue fuck what Ennis has to say?” Stiles asks. “The original wager wasn’t with Ennis. It was with Deucalion. He might, or might not, be pissed off that Ennis is trying to wade in.”

“I think he actually would be,” Peter says. “Like most werewolves, Duke takes gambling very seriously. He wouldn’t be happy to hear that Ennis interfered with my ability to sponsor you. If you lose, I could kick up a fuss and accuse Duke of welshing, say that Ennis’ interference – which could have been on Duke’s behalf – was the reason why we lost. It would put Duke in a bad light, even if he said that he hadn’t told Ennis to do what he did. He’d be required to give us what we had wagered for to settle the issue – and if you were dead, he wouldn’t be able to deliver that.” He nods and says, “It’s a good idea, Stiles. Wager Ennis’ interference against Allison.”

“You mean, bet with Deucalion that if you win despite Ennis fucking things up, we get Allison too?” Cora asks. “But wouldn’t that mean Ennis gets free rein to continue fucking around?”

“Yes, it would. But with only one game left, and a survival game at that, it might not matter. Survival games are less about strength and more about intelligence, which means that Stiles can win, even without my help.”

Stiles flushes faintly pink and gives Peter a sideways smile. “And since Ennis will continue to mess with us, even if Duke tells him not to, we really don’t lose anything.”

Peter nods again. “I’ll talk to Duke. Set it up.” He stands and brings a plate over to Stiles. “You need to eat, and then you need to rest.”

“Okay.” Stiles digs in without having to be told twice. “So what was all that about, yesterday? I mean, I get you’re upset I could’ve been killed, but you were like . . . _really_ upset.”

Peter says nothing for a few moments, aware of the tension emanating from all three of Talia’s children, as they wait to see whether or not he’s going to get upset. He’s not; at least, not with Stiles. “That’s how werewolf executions are done,” he says, and Stiles’ head snaps up. “Well, it depends on the crime. Sometimes it’s beheading. But for treason, it’s being burned at the stake. That’s how Talia was killed, along with both my parents.”

“Jesus,” Stiles says, in a low voice. “Peter, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“It was an expression of sympathy, not apology.”

At that, Peter’s lips quirk into a smile. “Ah, I see. In any case, I imagine they set that up special for me. I don’t know what the eighth game was originally, but I very much doubt it was that. They wanted me to watch you burn to death.” He reaches out, idly trailing his fingers over the back of Stiles’ neck and shoulders, draining bits of his pain away with his touch. “They wanted the three of them,” he adds, tilting his head towards Talia’s children, “to witness Talia’s execution as well, but I wouldn’t allow it. The bargain I made to get them out of that was that I would light the pyres myself. All six of them. I still have bad dreams about it.”

Stiles thinks this all over for a long minute before he says, “So Ennis is a dick. That’s not news.”

Peter gives a little snort of laughter. “No, it is not.”

Stiles leans into his touch, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder. “I can do it, though. I can win.”

“I know you can,” Peter says. “I’ve known from the very beginning.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much badassery in one chapter... =D
> 
> Warnings that it gets pretty bloody, though.

 

Peter glances around as he enters the Gaming Bar, and sees that he’ll have a satisfactory audience for this. Deucalion is sitting at his usual table, holding court in one corner of the bar. Marin is next to him, as well as several other members of his pack. Ennis and Kali are at a table not far away, with some of their own friends. Peter goes up to the bar and gets a bottle of whiskey, makes the needed adjustments, and heads over to Deucalion’s table. He drags over a chair and sits down across from Deucalion without being invited, a huge breach of protocol that gets everyone’s attention. “I’m disappointed, Duke,” he says, pouring a shot but setting it down without drinking it. “You of all people should know better than to try to welsh on a bet.”

The bar goes so quiet that even a human could hear a pin drop. Deucalion takes it well. He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t flinch. “You’re going to need to back that accusation up, Hale.”

“I wasn’t told about the eighth game,” Peter says, keeping his tone and expression pleasant. “Why wasn’t I told about the eighth game, Deucalion?”

There’s a brief moment of confusion on Deucalion’s face, which confirms Peter’s suspicion that Ennis had been acting on his own. Knowing Ennis, he probably hadn’t even thought about the possible consequences of his actions. After a moment, Deucalion just says, “Elaborate.”

“The eighth game involved the contestant being chained to a pole and burned at the stake,” Peter says. “You saw it, I’m sure. But unlike every other game, I was not notified ahead of time what the game would be. My ability to properly sponsor forty-two was hindered. I’m sure you can appreciate what that means for our wager.”

Deucalion frowns slightly. “Let’s speak in private,” he says, and everyone in the bar immediately gets up to leave without protest. Deucalion watches, then points at Ennis and says, “Ennis, you stay.”

“Good boy,” Peter quips, and Ennis growls at him.

Deucalion waits until the bar has emptied, then says, “When did you find out about the game?”

“Five minutes before it started. And I wasn’t allowed to talk to forty-two beforehand. They sent him through the portal before I could.”

“Oh, who gives a shit?” Ennis asks. “Knowing the details wouldn’t have helped him, anyway.”

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Deucalion lifts a finger, forestalling him. “Ennis. Why was Hale not informed about the eighth game?”

Scowling, Ennis says, “Because he’s a filthy human-fucker, that’s why.”

Peter just smirks. Deucalion’s frown deepens slightly. “It didn’t occur to you, I take it, that hindering his ability to sponsor forty-two could invalidate the wager.”

“Uh, no,” Ennis mutters. “But it’s not a big deal. Like I said, knowing the details wouldn’t have helped.”

“Yes, it would have,” Peter says. “I could have taught him how to escape the manacles. Every other sponsored contestant did that. Ask them, Duke. They all knew how. There’s a trick to it that humans can do that werewolves can’t, bending their thumb out of shape. Stiles had to go up the pole instead, and he received severe burns.”

“He survived, didn’t he?” Ennis sneers, snatching Peter’s shot of whiskey and knocking it back.

“The injuries forty-two sustained in the eighth game could hinder his performance in the ninth,” Peter says, although he addresses Deucalion, not Ennis. “Which means that if he loses because of Ennis’ interference, you’ll have no right to say I lost the bet.”

Deucalion’s expression doesn’t change. “Ennis’ interference wasn’t ordered by me.”

“Do you think that makes you look better? Instead of welshing on a bet, you can’t control your subordinates. What do you think the other alphas will think of that? Who’s directly below you right now, Douglas? Sebastian? Either of them would love to take your place as the Alpha of Alphas.”

Deucalion considers this for a long minute before he says, “What do you want, Peter?”

“I want to go double or nothing. I want to sponsor seventeen as well as forty-two.”

“You can’t sponsor two contestants,” Ennis sputters.

Deucalion doesn’t look at him. His gaze never wavers from Peter. “And?”

“If forty-two wins, I get him and his family in my pack. If seventeen wins, I get her and her family in my pack. If they _both_ win – because the last game is a survival game – then I get both of them, and both their families, in my pack.”

“No.” Deucalion dismisses this immediately. “I’ll let you have either. But not both.”

“What part of this is a negotiation? I’m dictating terms, Duke. You’ll take them or leave them. You have no other options. If forty-two dies, then I’ll say it was because of the injuries he sustained in the eighth game. You can’t just give him time to recover because then all the other contestants get extra time, too. So I’ll overlook Ennis’ interference, but I get seventeen.”

“You can have seventeen. You just can’t have both.”

“I think you’ll find I can. Oh, and one more thing. Seventeen’s father is in a prison camp, rather than a slave camp. He’ll be one of her seven.”

Deucalion’s eyebrows go up. “You’re joking.”

“My sense of humor might be perverse, Duke, but I promise you that I’m not.”

“Let’s just say for a moment that I go along with this. That I don’t have you quietly murdered and then deal with whatever the other alphas think of my theoretical welshing on our wager. You’re going to have to sweeten the pot, Hale. What do I get?”

“I’ll let you keep Ennis.”

Ennis growls, and Deucalion looks amused. “Was that up for debate?”

“What was the eighth game originally, Duke? Because it wasn’t burning contestants at the stake. No, Ennis and Kali put that together for me, didn’t they? They saw I gave Stiles a mating bite and decided to murder him the same way you murdered my sister. That’s not the sort of thing I’m going to forgive or forget.”

“What are you going to do, Hale?” Ennis asks, sneering at him.

“Well, that depends on Duke here. If he agrees to my terms, I won’t tell anyone about how you welshed on your bet with me, about how you continued to use Laura as Omega after I won our wager. I won’t make a big deal out of you not giving me details on the eighth game.” He smiles up at Ennis. “Oh, and I’ll give you the antidote to the poison I laced your drink with.”

Ennis stares at him, stunned. Deucalion pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hale. Really?”

“Yellow wolfsbane,” Peter says, still smiling. “I keep some for emergencies. He’ll start feeling the effects in about five to ten minutes.”

“You call ‘not murdering one of my subordinates’ sweetening the pot?”

“Well, compared to the alternative, yes. I could point out that I didn’t ask him to drink the shot. He took it without asking.”

Deucalion sighs, looking somewhat put upon. “All right, Hale. We’ll play it your way. You can have forty-two, seventeen, seventeen’s father, whatever you like. But remember that this is only one day. Even if you get what you want now, there are no guarantees for the future.”

“Back at you,” Peter says, with a pleasant smile. He takes a vial out of his shirt pocket and hands it to Ennis. Still growling, the alpha drinks the antidote. “I’ll see you at the games, Duke.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“There are eleven candidates, so you will have nine other people to worry about,” Peter says. “Now, the game itself is simple. It’s a maze. Whoever makes it to the finish first wins.”

“So Allison and I have to arrive simultaneously somehow,” Stiles says, grimacing.

Peter nods a little and says, “I imagine there will be a finish line, a portal to exit through, et cetera. So if you can get an inch away and then wait for Allison to join you, it shouldn’t be an issue. However, that means you will have to protect the exit from anyone who arrives before she does – or, she will have to protect it until you arrive, if she beats you there.”

Derek is chewing on his lower lip. “How do we know Allison will wait for you?”

“She will,” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t look convinced, but Peter says, “I believe I can cover that. Stiles, you said her father was part of the resistance and was put in a prison camp, correct? Well, I’ve been talking to a few of Talia’s old friends, and I think I’ve located him. Tell Allison that if she waits for you, I’ll make sure her father will be one of the people she can choose for her pack.”

Stiles nods. “Got it. That will work.”

“I can’t get any information on the maze itself. I only found it was a maze at all by some illicit snooping. So, once you’re inside the maze, you’re on your own. But,” Peter continues, “I want you to be fully prepared to fight any of the other nine candidates. Eight of whom will have more information on the maze than you, because they’re sponsored. Plus, I’m sure Ennis is going to throw us at least one curveball.”

“Naturally,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

Peter goes through the candidates one at a time, discussion what he’s catalogued during the games. Valak is partially blind in his left eye. Violet is overly aggressive and can be baited into making mistakes. Conversely, Barrow is too timid and always waits for his opponent to make the first move. Conrad has taken an injury to his right ankle and it hasn’t fully healed yet.

“Honestly,” Peter says, “the one candidate who hasn’t presented a weakness yet is Theo.”

Stiles grimaces and mutters, “I can handle Theo.”

“See, that – that is what I’m afraid of,” Peter says. “Theo’s smart. Not as smart as you, but he’s smart. He’s survived all the way to the last game without a sponsor because he knows how to play this game. He’s toadied up to the right people, presenting himself as a kiss-ass who needs protection to survive. But he’s brutal in a fight. You haven’t been able to see anyone else’s one-on-one fights, but I have, and I will tell you right now that Theo is the most dangerous contestant out of everyone left.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, and lifts his hands in surrender when Peter gives him a look. “I believe you, seriously. I’m just not sure what to do about it.”

“Well, can he be talked into joining you?” Laura asks. “Teaming up with you and Allison?”

“In any other game, certainly,” Peter says, “but not this one. He won’t want to share his victory with anyone else.”

“Even if we tell him he gets to be part of a more powerful pack that way?” Stiles asks.

“But that’s not true. If he shares his victory with you, _our_ pack will be more powerful. But if he wins on his own, he gets to be part of Deucalion’s pack, which would be even more so.”

“But he doesn’t know that,” Derek points out. “He doesn’t have a sponsor, so he doesn’t know that.”

Stiles shakes his head. “He might, though. I’ve talked enough with Allison that he might have overheard bits and pieces, enough to put it together. We’ve tried to be circumspect, but that room affords absolutely no privacy. We can’t be sure of what he does and doesn’t know. I mean, I can try to convince him, but I think we should have a backup plan.”

“There is no backup plan,” Peter says. “I haven’t found a weakness. Just fight him with everything you’ve got, and don’t underestimate him.”

“Solid plan,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Maybe if I’m lucky, somebody else will kill him first.”

“Doubtful,” Peter says, “with the way he’s played the room.”

“When’s the game start?” Stiles asks.

“Tomorrow at noon. From the sound of it, it’ll probably take anywhere between four and eight hours.” Peter stands up and gestures for Stiles to stand as well. “Come on. I want to show you some moves that you can use on Valak and Conrad.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Gather ‘round!” Ennis shouts, and gives Stiles a truly vicious scowl when he and Allison walk up to the loose group of candidates. “This way!”

They go through the portal and come out on the empty plain again. They’re facing a long rock wall, like they had before several of the other games, but this time it’s even larger than before. Not a lot higher, but longer, stretching almost as far as he can see in either direction. In front of it, but behind Ennis, is a table full of equipment.

“The ninth and final game will now commence!” Ennis shouts. “The object is to get to the center of the maze. You will all be sent to starting points that are equally distant from the center!”

“Sure we will be,” Allison mutters, but Stiles thinks they actually might be. Ennis can’t control the portals, and the Druids don’t seem to play favorites.

“Whoever makes it through the portal at the end will be the winner,” Ennis continues. “While inside the maze, you may encounter other contestants. If you kill another candidate, a portal will open that will move you one hour closer to the finish line!”

Stiles grimaces a little. He had wondered how Ennis was going to stack things against him and Allison, and that’s definitely one way to do it. But to be honest, most of the contestants would kill anyone they ran across anyway, just to make sure they didn’t get to the end first.

“Here is your equipment!” Ennis says, gesturing to the table. Kali is going down the line of contestants, handing each one of them a backpack. “You will each be allowed three items, plus your choice of weapon!”

They’re each called one at a time. Stiles looks over the contents of the table and thinks about what he knows about the maze so far. Ennis had said if they killed someone, they’d be moved an hour further in. Plus, from what he can see, this maze isn’t small. This could take a day or more. That being considered, he grabs a jug of water. It’s heavy, but he’ll need it. Then he takes a compass, which will be invaluable, and after some consideration, a coil of rope. For a weapon, he takes the same type of knife he’s been using so far.

A few minutes later, they’re on their way. Stiles squeezes Allison’s hand briefly before he’s showed through his portal.

He finds himself in a drab corner, with gray stone wall making a fairly wide angle. He takes a moment to think about things. It’s not a round maze, so it’s a polygon of some sort. It has to be a regular polygon, to make it simple to have everyone equidistant from the center. For there to be twelve corners, it almost _is_ round, which explains why the angle is so wide.

The corridor is narrow, about five feet wide. That means that the maze is dense. Given the size of it, it would take hours to make it to the center even if he doesn’t get lost.

 “Fuck that noise,” he says, and eyes the stone wall. It’s fairly rough. They weren’t going to waste effort making it pretty. What that means, practically speaking, is that it has handholds. They aren’t big, and climbing it isn’t easy. But it’s not very high, somewhere between twelve and fifteen feet. He makes it to the top easily enough and hoists himself up to stand on it. It’s not wide – barely a foot – but not so narrow to make walking impossible. “Super,” Stiles says to himself, and pulls out his compass. The wall in one direction faces due west,; the other is slightly northwest. He closes his eyes and pictures the polygon in his mind. An even-sided polygon would be a lot easier than odd, so there are twelve sides. That makes the angle he’s standing in one hundred fifty degrees. If one side of polygon is due west, then the center is going to be northeast of him. He shuffles a little so he’s standing directly in the corner, splitting the angle as evenly as possible, then checks his compass and nods. Mostly north, slightly east.

That being figured out, he’s about to climb back down, when it occurs to him that it would be smarter to stay on top of the wall. Nobody made any rules about going through the maze rather than over it. They just said that the object was to get to the center. From here, he can take a straight path, rather than having to figure out the maze. He’ll have to jump occasionally, but the corridors are narrow enough that he thinks he can. Even if he occasionally has to climb down and then back up, he’d still be saving time. Plus, this way he can avoid any special surprises that are in the maze itself. If the other contestants see him, they might try to attack him, but Allison is the only one who chose a range weapon. The rest of them have either blades or staffs.

“Well, okay then,” he says, and jumps to the next wall.

It’s harder work than he had anticipated at first. Quicker, certainly, since he can take the direct route. But he’s rarely able to walk more than twenty feet without having to jump, and that gets tiring quickly. He thinks back to his days at the mill, and he’s amazed by how much strength and endurance he’s gained since then. It’s amazing how much simply having enough to eat has helped him. He makes a mental note about how when he’s done with the werewolves, nobody will go without the way he has, ever again.

He walks. And jumps. And jumps. And walks. Takes a three minute break while he sits on the wall, legs dangling over the edge. Sips his water, checks his compass. And walks. Hears a scream from somewhere else in the maze, high-pitched but masculine, not Allison, unimportant. Jumps, and walks, and walks.

It’s important to pace himself. If he’s exhausted when he reaches the end of the maze, he won’t be able to defend it. So he forces himself to take breaks, no matter how hard it is. It’s hard to know how often he takes them. Time blurs together. Gradually, the sun moves overhead, but it feels like it’s taking an eon.

He nearly stumbles into the center of the maze when he finally finds it. It’s not much to look at. A little circular area, no more than ten feet in diameter. There’s nothing to mark it as the end of the maze except the portal that swirls in the middle.

Stiles’ heart leaps into his throat. He did it. He actually did it. He made it. Nobody else is here. He assumes that if someone else had made it out, the portal would be gone, that all of them would have been left to die. All he has to do now is wait for Allison.

Of course, he could just go through. Guarantee his survival, make sure he doesn’t have to face any of the others. The temptation is there for a moment, but then gone. Allison had gotten all the way to the last trial on her own. He’s not going to abandon her now. It doesn’t matter how long he has to wait.

The minutes slide by. He takes up a position right in front of the portal, between it and the only entrance into the little alcove. Unless someone else comes in from above, nobody will get past him. He yawns a little and splashes some water on his face. It’s been a hell of a long day.

It’s getting uncomfortably warm, and he’s thinking about taking his shirt off, when he hears footsteps. He gets to his feet, one hand clutching at his knife, heart starting to pound in his chest. Then Theo comes around the corner. He sees the portal, sees Stiles, and does a double take. Then his face splits into that friendly, disarming grin, which is somewhat incongruous given the blood on his shirt and hands. “Hey, fancy meeting you here.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, gripping the knife tighter.

“This the end of the line?” Theo asks, glancing at the portal.

“So it would seem.” Stiles clears his throat. He knows that trying to talk Theo into waiting might not get him anywhere, but he still has to try. “I’m waiting for Allison. You’re welcome to join me.”

Theo looks at the portal again, then over his shoulder. “Probably not the best idea,” he says. “The others could show up any time.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “They can wait, too. If they don’t want to wait, I’ll kick their asses.”

Theo appears to think about this for a long moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says. Stiles is somewhat surprised, and eyes him warily as Theo shrugs off his backpack and rummages around in it, pulling out a bottle of water and giving it a quick shake. It’s clearly empty, and he tosses it aside and says, “Hey, got anything left to drink?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says, because he actually does have a fair amount of water left. If Theo is here now, hopefully Allison won’t be much longer. He pulls the bottle out of his bag as Theo walks over, and holds it out to him.

He sees the knife an instant before Theo guts him. He’s reaching for the water with one hand, holding the knife close to his leg, and he jerks it towards Stiles just as he gets within range. Stiles twists out of the way, and it rips through his shirt and scores a thin line on his side. He swears and grabs Theo by the wrist as he strikes forward again. He can’t retreat. If he does, Theo will just run through the portal and that will be the end of it. He has to stand his ground.

“Damn, you really are quick,” Theo says, as Stiles squeezes his wrist, trying to get him to drop the knife. He’s still smiling.

“Theo, we don’t have to do this,” Stiles says, struggling to keep Theo from advancing. Theo is stronger than he is, even after everything Peter has done for him. He takes a step to the side, rotating them so the portal isn’t directly in Theo’s path. Theo is still pushing forward, so when Stiles lets go all of a sudden and jerks to the side, he goes stumbling, carried by his own momentum. Stiles wastes no time sweeping his leg underneath Theo before he can regain his balance, but he catches himself against the wall. It’s not the result Stiles had hoped for, but it does give him enough time to jerk his own knife out of his belt.

Stiles swears and ducks as Theo spins around and aims a roundhouse kick at his face. He manages to evade, and slashes forward with the knife. Theo puts up both arms to protect his chest and stomach. Stiles remembers Peter teaching him how to knife-fight, telling him that the first thing to do was to accept that he _was_ going to get cut, he just had to decide where. Theo seems to subscribe to the same philosophy.

One of Stiles’ moves cuts deep into Theo’s arm, and the knife catches in the bone. Theo jerks the arm to one side, and the knife is wrenched out of Stiles’ hand. It skitters across the room and lands several feet away. Theo doesn’t waste any time striking forward with his own knife, and Stiles ducks to the side, catching Theo’s wrist and pushing it out as far away from his body as he can. He slams his head forward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of Theo’s nose. Theo goes reeling backwards, and Stiles pursues, getting Theo pinned up against the wall. He slams Theo’s arm into the wall repeatedly, until his hand opens and he lets go of the knife.

“We don’t – have to – do this!” Stiles pants, pressing his forearm against Theo’s throat.

The lower half of Theo’s face is covered in blood, but he grins again, and that’s when Stiles’ realizes what a stupid mistake he’s made. He realizes it just as Theo’s second knife stabs deep into his abdomen. He’s driven backwards from the force of it. Of course Theo has a second weapon. Theo had obviously been fighting someone else in the maze; after his victory, he had taken their knife. He had let Stiles see his own knife, let Stiles get it away from him, to lure him closer.

“Fuck,” Stiles wheezes, more in shock than anything else. Theo jerks the knife out, and blood starts soaking through Stiles’ shirt. He staggers backwards a few steps, pressing his hand against the wound. Theo heads for the portal, and Stiles abandons caution and just throws himself onto Theo before he can get there. They both go sprawling to the ground. Stiles manages to get on top, straddling Theo’s body and pressing his knuckles into the other man’s carotid artery the way Peter had showed him. Theo struggles, but his right hand and the knife in it are trapped underneath the weight of his own body. He heaves upwards, grunting as Stiles’ fingers dig into his throat, and manages to get his arm free.

He stabs forward with the knife, and Stiles puts his hand out, grabbing it by the blade. It cuts deeply into his fingers and palm, but he doesn’t even notice as he tries to wrench it out of Theo’s hand. Theo tries to pull it back, and Stiles uses his other hand to grab his wrist so he can’t. They struggle over the weapon for interminable moments. Stiles lets go of the blade so he can close his bloody hand over Theo’s where he’s holding onto the hilt. He digs his fingers into the web of skin between Theo’s thumb and forefinger, and with a grunt of pain, he lets go. Stiles flips the knife and nearly drops it before driving it downwards, but Theo’s still got him by the wrists. The knife descends a millimeter at a time while Theo struggles against both Stiles and gravity.

“Okay, okay, I yield,” Theo pants. “You beat me, I yield. We can wait for Allison.”

Stiles is about to tell him to go fuck himself, but then thinks better of the idea. “Okay,” he gasps out. He pulls the knife back a fraction, signaling his willingness to go along with this. “Okay.”

Theo cautiously lets go, and when Stiles doesn’t make a move, he pushes himself upwards a little so he can sit up. “Geez,” he says, “you’re a lot tougher than – ”

Stiles drives the knife forward, into Theo’s chest. Theo makes a noise like Stiles just punched all the air out of him, his eyes going wide with shock. “How fucking _stupid_ ,” Stiles pants out, “do you think I am?” He jerks the knife back, and when Theo tries to grab it from him, he drives it down again. He does it over and over again, not even really aware of what he’s doing, long past the point where Theo has gone still. Then he finally manages to stop, letting out a hoarse sob and crawling off of Theo’s body.

The world is blurry, dark at the edges. He makes a fist and presses it into the wound that Theo had made in his abdomen. He doesn’t know how much blood he’s lost, but it’s a lot. If he wants to live, he can’t wait any longer. “I’m sorry, Allison,” he mumbles, crawling towards the portal. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He’s only halfway there when he hears footsteps. He rolls onto his back, trying to focus on the blurry figure in the entryway. It’s not Allison. He can’t tell who it is. Everything’s blurry. Barrow, maybe. Whoever it is, he sees Stiles lying there and lets out a chuckle. Even goes a few steps out of his way so he can step over Stiles’ body.

It proves his undoing. He’s barely taken another step when there’s a soft _thwip_ and an arrow goes through his neck. He makes a face of comical surprise and staggers towards the portal, knowing if he can get through, get the Bite –

Stiles grabs him by the ankles, sending him sprawling on the ground. Allison jogs over and pulls the arrow out of his throat. Blood goes everywhere, but she barely notices. “Oh my God, Stiles – ”

She gets him underneath the armpits and hauls him to his feet. He stumbles against her, and she rights him again. “Come on, you have to walk through the portal under your own steam, don’t give those bastards a chance to say you didn’t win.”

Stiles nods. He digs his fist into the wound even harder, then reaches out with his other hand. She takes it, twining her fingers through, and they step through the portal together.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

 

Peter has been watching in game headquarters, and although his stomach has been on a roller coaster, he’s calm and reassuring as Stiles and Allison step through the portal. Everyone is talking loudly as Peter gets his arm around Stiles and helps him sit down. He takes a glance at the wound and winces. It’s not necessarily fatal, but he needs treatment or a werewolf bite immediately.

Of course, Ennis is loudly insisting that there can only be one winner, that they need to see which one of them came through the portal first before either of them can get the bite. Kali is backing him up, and Deucalion isn’t stopping them because it’s better for him if they can manage to sway the other alphas to their side. The Druids are replaying it and everyone is watching intently.

“Peter,” Stiles murmurs, relaxing into Peter’s arms. Peter glances down as his body goes limp. He’s passed out. Maybe better for him, in the short-term.

“Is he – ” Allison says, her eyes wide.

“No, just unconscious,” Peter says, and shakes his head a little. “He’ll bleed out within the next ten minutes or so if we can’t help him.”

“But – ”

Peter glances up as he hears Ennis shouting in triumph, which means that instant replay has declared Allison the victor. He also sees a few of the other alphas getting involved and arguing with this. They aren’t friends of Peter’s, but they aren’t fans of Deucalion, either. If they want to unseat him, they’re seeing a chance to get a following.

“The rules didn’t say one of them had to get through first,” Sebastian says. “Just that they had to get to the center of the maze.”

“I said the first person to make it through the portal wins!” Ennis snarls.

“Actually, you didn’t,” one of the Druids corrects him. “I was there. You only said ‘whoever makes it through the portal’.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“Besides, forty-two made it to the center first,” Douglas points out. “He could have gone through then, but instead he waited for seventeen. She wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for that.”

“That was his fucking choice,” Kali says.

Peter sighs. He gestures to Laura, who walks over and kneels beside him, taking Stiles’ wrist in her hand and sinking her teeth into it. Stiles shudders a little, then gives a choked gasp, eyes opening. Peter looks at Allison and gives a gesture to her as well. Allison extends her arm, and Laura gives her the bite. Then Peter stands, holding Stiles in his arms. “If you people ever finish arguing about this, let me know,” he says. “In the meantime, I’m going to be taking my two victors and going home. Have a lovely evening.”

“Hale, you can’t – ” Ennis realizes that Laura’s already given them both the bite. “You piece of shit – you won’t get away with this – ”

He starts forward, but before he can take more than two steps, Laura executes a neat spin and kicks him in the stomach so hard he goes flying. He knocks over two other werewolves and lands in a heap. Kali starts forward, and Laura turns on her. “Try me,” she snarls. “I’m not the Omega of Alphas anymore. If you touch my pack, I will tear out your throat.”

“You bitch – ” Kali starts.

“Kali,” Deucalion says, his voice calm, but cutting through the noise. “Ennis. You might not like it, but Hale won his bet fair and square. It’s time to let it go.”

Peter can’t help but smirk at a few of the alphas as he walks by. Laura is still scowling at them, protecting his back until they leave the game room. Allison jogs along at his side, her worried gaze trained on Stiles, so that she barely even notices their surroundings. Derek and Cora are waiting just outside the game room, and when they see Stiles, Cora lets out an uncharacteristic whoop of joy. Derek is a little more reserved. “Geez, he’s covered in blood.”

“Yes, he bled quite a lot, but he’ll make it,” Peter says. He’s walking at a fairly brisk pace, but it’s mostly just because he feels exposed, threatened. Stiles doesn’t need immediate medical care; the bite will take care of his wounds. Already, the ones on his hands are healing. He’ll need to take it easy for a day because of the blood loss, but that’s all.

Once they get back to the den, Peter lays Stiles down on the nest of blankets. He murmurs something but doesn’t fully wake. Peter smoothes a hand over his hair and then leaves him to rest, turning to Allison. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Allison says.

“I’ll get you something,” Cora says, seeing the way Allison’s worried gaze is fixed on Stiles.

“Then you should get some rest,” Peter says.

Allison really looks at them for the first time, and realizes she’s surrounded by people she’s barely met. “Oh – I’m sorry, I – thanks.”

Peter waves this aside. “I assume Stiles has told you about us,” he says, and Allison nods a little. Peter gestures at each of his niblings and says, “That’s Laura, Derek, and Cora. Welcome to the pack, Allison. Tomorrow, once Stiles is healed and you’ve both gotten some rest, we’ll go pick up the rest of our new packmates, including your father.”

Allison’s gaze snaps over to Peter, and she nearly fumbles the plate that Cora just handed her. “You found my father?”

“Stiles didn’t tell you?” Peter asks, then rolls his eyes. “Clearly, he didn’t. He was  _ supposed _ to. To tell you that if you got to the finish line first, you should wait for him, because I could reunite you with your father. How very stubbornly like him not to do as he was told.”

“To blackmail me, you mean?” Allison asks, somewhat dryly.

“Precisely,” Peter says. “Would you have waited for him, if you had gotten there first? Not if it was easy,” he adds, seeing the way she frowned at him. “But if Theo showed up, if you had to protect the exit rather than just go through. Would you have waited for him, the way he did for you?”

“Yes,” Allison says, meeting his gaze.

Peter holds it for a moment, then nods. “Well, it seems that both of you are better people than I am. That’s no bad thing. In any case, yes, Allison, I believe I have located the prison camp your father is in. If he agrees to get the bite, he can join us here. But he’s fought werewolves his entire life. I can’t promise that he’ll be willing.”

Allison’s jaw sets, but then she nods and redirects her attention to the food. “Thanks,” she says. “Not just for that, but . . . neither of us could have survived without you.”

“It was a relationship of mutual benefit,” Peter says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Laura rolls her eyes and huffs. “Just say ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person, Uncle Peter.”

Amused, Peter says, “You’re welcome.”

Allison finishes eating and then sprawls out next to Stiles, falling asleep almost instantly. Peter studies him for another moment. Color is returning to his cheeks, and when he takes a look at the wound, it’s mostly closed. He’ll be all right. Peter curls up next to him, pressing his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck and inhaling his scent.

Stiles’ eyes flutter open. His gaze slowly focuses on Peter. “Is it over?” he mumbles.

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter says, smoothing his hair out of his face. “It’s over now. You won.”

Stiles’ forehead wrinkles slightly as he tries to think. “Doesn’t feel like I won.”

“But you did, Stiles. Now get some sleep.”

“Mmkay.” Stiles’ eyes close again. Peter sighs and relaxes against him. He decides to get some sleep himself. It’s been a long day.

~ ~ ~ ~

It’s been forty-two days since the Games began, and Noah Stilinski doesn’t know how much longer he can last. The first few days had been bottomless, mind-numbing despair, as he waited to hear that Stiles was dead. The others at the mill were sympathetic, helping carry his weight on shifts and making sure he and Claudia were taken care of. Some of the others knew how he felt. They had lost children in the games, too. It’s a bit of a circle of honor that he’s now a part of.

Except that they don’t hear that Stiles has been killed. The days drag by, and Noah starts to wonder what’s happening. He even risks asking one of the werewolf guards. It’s always announced when their contestant is killed, so can he safely assume that Stiles is alive until they’re notified otherwise? The werewolf grunts a confirmation and then tells him to get back to work.

In a way, the hope is almost worse than the despair. Every minute of every day, he’s thinking about his son and being afraid for him. It makes it hard to concentrate on his work, hard to think about anything else. Every time the gong sounds for an announcement, his stomach twists and his body breaks out in sweat.

The worst part is that Claudia doesn’t seem to notice anything is different. She spends most of her time confused and disoriented as it is, and Noah had expected Stiles’ absence to further unmoor her. Despite the fact that she no longer recognizes her son, he’s still with her a good portion of the day. He feeds her and takes care of her. But she makes no mention of Stiles being gone, and Noah doesn’t know how to bring it up, doesn’t want to upset her.

He’s just reported for his shift at the mill and has been working for less than ten minutes when the gong sounds. It’s an odd time of day for an announcement, and he nearly drops what he’s working on as his head jerks around. A werewolf steps out onto one of the platforms and announces, his voice magically amplified, “The Survival Games are complete!”

Noah’s stomach twists. The last game. His son made it all the way to the  _ last game _ . It’s over now. He can’t breathe. The man next to him on the line reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.

The werewolf waits until the moment is unbearable, clearly enjoying watching them suffer. One of the men finally loses his temper and shouts, “Who won, God damn it?!”

Another long moment of silence, and then the werewolf barks out, “Seventeen!”

All the breath goes out of Noah. He sinks to his knees and doubles over, struck with the sudden urge to vomit. Two of the others crouch next to him, offering what little comfort they can.

Somewhat begrudgingly and with much less ceremony, the werewolf adds, “And forty-two.”

Noah’s head snaps up. The mill buzzes in confusion, unsure if the werewolf is fucking with them, if they should cheer or not. Noah struggles to his feet and pushes his way forward. “Two victors?” he asks, his voice trembling. “My s – ” He practically chokes on the question. “My son survived? Stiles survived?”

The werewolf stares him down for a moment, then grunts, “Yeah, your kid’s okay, Stilinski.”

A huge cheer goes up in the mill. Everyone is trying to hug Noah and clap him on the back and say they knew that Stiles could do it. Noah is too busy trying not to cry in front of everyone to say very much. The werewolves herd them into the huge courtyard, one of the few times every year they’re allowed to go outside, where the Druids will put on the Highlights Reel. Most of the people who don’t work are there as well, mothers with their young children, the frail, the elderly. Only the sickest are allowed not to attend, and Noah is relieved to see that Claudia isn’t there.

The courtyard goes artificially dark, and the Highlights Reel starts to play on one wall. Noah knows approximately how it goes. They’ll show a few clips of everyone from the first game, but focus on the candidates who made it further than the others. They’ll frame Stiles and – whoever it is from Seventeen – as the protagonists, and the candidates they’ll eventually kill as their opponents.

When Stiles comes on screen, Noah practically clutches the person standing next to him without even knowing who it is. When he gets attacked at the stream, the man turns to him and says, “Maybe you don’t want to see this, Noah?” But to be honest, Noah doesn’t care. He knows that his son had had to kill people to survive. He  _ did _ survive. That’s all that matters.

So he watches with interest as Stiles makes friends with the girl from Seventeen, as other characters are built up as the opposition. Even knowing Stiles survived, it’s hard to watch his one-on-one fights. Noah clenches his fists during his fight with Donovan, and almost can’t watch when he’s nearly killed by Brunski. He stops breathing during his fight with Theo.

But finally, it’s over. Stiles and Allison step through the portal together to an enormous cheer in the courtyard. The images disappear and the sunlight returns.

The werewolf’s voice is heard throughout the courtyard again, although Noah can’t see him anywhere. “The following people have been chose to join Mieczyslaw Stilinski in the honor of the Bite! Noah Stilinski. Claudia Stilinski. Melissa McCall. Scott McCall. Isaac Lahey. Erica Reyes. Vernon Boyd the fourth. You have one hour to gather your belongings and say your farewells before you will return to this courtyard for transportation.”

It goes silent. Everyone is hugging Noah and congratulating him. He’s thinking Stiles’ choices over, and he approves of them. Scott and his mother make sense, of course. Erica, too, has suffered from her epilepsy her entire life. Isaac’s father had died the previous year and he’s been working long hours at the mill to survive. Boyd is Erica’s boyfriend, so that makes sense, too, even if his situation isn’t as bad.

He hurries up to his room and throws some things into a bag before packing a little more carefully for Claudia. She’s in bed, sitting up but rocking herself slightly. Noah wants to explain, but he’s not sure how. If she gets the Bite – if it honestly cures her – maybe then he’ll be able to tell her what’s happening.

There are a lot of people coming by their tiny apartment, and he has to stop and hug them and say goodbye. He’ll probably never be back here, never see these people again. Parting should be bittersweet, but he’s so anxious to see his son that it hasn’t really set in yet. He’ll feel it later, he thinks, but for now all he feels is an overwhelming drive to get to his son  _ right now _ .

He helps Claudia out of the apartment for the first time in years, down the stairs and into the courtyard. The McCalls and Isaac are already there. Erica and Boyd are a little later, but that makes sense; they had families with whom they would have more prolonged farewells. Finally,  _ finally _ , the werewolf in charge announces that it’s time to go.

Noah is enormously relieved to see a portal open. He had been trying not to envision a journey of days or even weeks. They’re all led through it and they come out into an open area, standing on cracked, pitted pavement. Weeds have tried to growth up through the cracks and have yellowed and died. Noah looks around for his son, but doesn’t see him. Instead, he sees a young woman standing by a door to a large building. There’s a man several paces behind her.

“Hello,” the woman greets them, her voice high-pitched and a little nervous. “My name is Laura Hale. This is my uncle Peter. I’m going to be your alpha.”

There are a few murmurs of acknowledgment, and Noah can’t wait any longer. “Where’s Stiles?”

“You must be Noah,” Laura says, with a small smile. “Stiles is at the den. None of you are allowed into the settlement until you’ve had the Bite. That’s why we’re meeting you here.”

Noah has already extended his arm and says, “Whatever gets me to my son.”

Laura’s eyes flare crimson, and Noah takes an involuntary step back. But her fangs sink into his arm without ceremony, and although it hurts, it’s no worse than any of the work injuries he’s taken. He ushers Claudia up next and says, “She’s going to give you a shot, okay? It’ll hurt, but it’ll get you better.”

“I don’t need to get better,” Claudia says irritably, and when Laura bites her arm, she slaps Laura across the face. “What was that for?!”

Noah feels a flash of fear, not knowing how Laura will react to this, but the alpha just smiles gently and says, “I’m sorry, Claudia, but Noah is right. It’ll make you feel better, okay?”

Claudia mutters something uncomplimentary as Laura proceeds down the line. Noah takes her hand and squeezes it as Peter comes over to apply bandages to the bite wounds. He speaks quietly, so the others won’t hear. “Stiles stayed at the den because he’s afraid. He knows you will have seen the Highlights Reel by now, and he’s afraid you’re going to think less of him.”

Noah shakes his head. “He survived. That’s all that matters.”

“I know,” Peter says, tying the bandages off efficiently. “I told him that. But he’s still worried.”

There’s not much else Noah can say to that, and since he suspects that grabbing this man by the shoulders and demanding he be taken to Stiles right this second won’t get him anywhere, he doesn’t. He waits impatiently until all the bite wounds have been administered and bandaged, and then Laura leads them into the settlement. The others are muttering to each other, looking around and taking note of their surroundings, but Noah doesn’t care. He’s practically tripping over himself in his rush. After what seems like a million miles, Peter pushes aside a dark red curtain and shows them into a large room. There are a couple other people standing there. Noah sees the girl from seventeen out of the corner of his eye, but he barely notices because he also sees Stiles. He doesn’t bother to say anything. Just crosses the space between them in several quick strides and pulls Stiles into a hug. Stiles clutches at him, burying his face in his father’s shoulder and squeezing so hard that it hurts.

“I’m so proud of you,” Noah chokes out. “You did so well, you were so strong – ” His throat closes over entirely, and he just holds Stiles as tightly as he can.

It takes several minutes before he’s willing to let go. He’s peripherally aware of Laura making some introductions in the background, something about a brother and a sister. For the first time, it occurs to him to wonder why they had been put in this pack. How was a match chosen? Laura had been aware of Claudia’s illness. Peter had known why Stiles was apprehensive about seeing his father. They clearly knew him. Finally, he manages to let go long enough for Stiles to greet the others. Everyone has to give him a hug, and they’re all crying, except Claudia, who’s still confused.

He has a lot of questions, but he knows he’s not going to get answers right away. Frankly, he doesn’t care. He greets the girl from seventeen and finds out her name is Allison, and he thanks her for the times she saved Stiles’ life. “I think we’re pretty much even,” Allison says, and Stiles laughs and agrees.

“Well,” Peter says, “I believe Laura and I have more pick-ups to make. Make yourself comfortable. Allison, did you want to – ”

“Yeah,” Allison says, springing to her feet. A few minutes later, they’re gone.

Noah gets Claudia settled in a corner. She’s withdrawing, which is one of the ways she often deals with stress. He doesn’t like seeing it, but it’s better than her lashing out. He walks over to where Stiles is sitting with the other teenagers and settles down next to him, pulling his son into another embrace. Stiles stiffens for a moment, but then relaxes, pressing his face into his father’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know this chapter won't answer everything but I hope it satisfies! <3 Thanks for reading, everybody!
> 
> (And because I know people are going to ask: I am not planning a sequel at this time. It's possibly I'll write one in the future, if I get a good idea about how to do it. ^_^)

Stiles has to admit to a pang of anxiety as the others leave. It’s not that he’s not happy to be reunited with his family and friends, but Peter and Allison are the people there who understand him. The people he’s been able to talk to about all of this, and admit how afraid he was to see his father again.

His father seems to sense his anxiety, probably hearing the uptick in Stiles’ heart rate, maybe without even realizing that’s what it is. “Hey. You okay?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, unconvincingly.

Noah looks around at the others, who are all chatting with each other and testing out their new werewolf abilities. “Let’s find a place where we can talk,” he says. “Can we leave the den?”

“No, well, uh,” Stiles says, cringing a little. “We _can_ , but it’s not really recommended, not without one of the Hales, at least for a little while. The other werewolves _shouldn’t_ have a problem with us being here, but that doesn’t mean none of them will.”

“Okay.” Noah stands up, pulling Stiles along with him, and heads for the back corner of the den. There are a couple chairs there and a battered sofa. He sits down on the sofa and makes Stiles sit next to him. “Look, kiddo. Peter told me that you were anxious about seeing us again.”

“Of course he did,” Stiles mutters. “That fucker.”

Noah smiles a little despite the situation. “I think he’s actually concerned for you. Which, let me tell you, this whole experience is really making me reconsider my preconceptions about werewolves.”

“Oh, uh . . . don’t take Peter or any of the Hales as an example of a typical werewolf,” Stiles says. “They’re anything but.”

Noah nods a little, filing that away. “I can see why you were worried, Stiles. But I’m here and you still won’t look me in the eye. You know I’ve seen what happened during the Games. Why are you still so tense? It’s like there’s something you’re afraid I’m going to figure out happened.”

“It’s just . . .” Stiles’ stomach churns. “You saw it? The whole thing?”

“Well, I saw what they showed us,” Noah says. “I guess it’s possible they left stuff out. But I saw you fight those other people. I know you only did what you had to do to survive. It’s not like I’m happy about it, but it wasn’t your fault. You were forced into that position, and the fact that you had to kill people wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles clutches the hem of his shirt between his hands, fingers twisting the fabric. He swallows hard. His father doesn’t see it, doesn’t realize. That’s good. They don’t have to talk about it. He can just say okay and then they can forget this ever happened.

Instead, he blurts out, “He surrendered.”

Noah blinks. “What? Who?”

“Theo.” Stiles chokes the name out through his rapidly closing throat. “He yielded, he put down his weapon. But I killed him. I told him I wouldn’t, I accepted his surrender, but then I killed him.”

“Stiles – ” Noah looks a little bewildered. “He wasn’t really surrendering. He was just saying that to get _you_ to let your guard down. You know that, you _knew_ that – that’s why you did what you did. If you hadn’t killed him, he would have waited until you had put your weapon down, and then he would have – ”

“I know,” Stiles says, hunching over, arms folded over his stomach. “I know, Dad. But I _don’t_ know. What if he was genuine? What if he meant it?”

Quietly, Noah says, “He didn’t mean it, Stiles.”

“But we can’t know that. And it didn’t matter to me. Not in that moment. I saw what I had to do to get him to put his weapon down, create an opening, and I did it. Whether or not he was sincere never even occurred to me. I just wanted to kill him.”

Noah reaches out and rubs a hand over Stiles’ hair, over the back of his neck. “You just wanted to live, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t hold back a sob. “I keep seeing it. Every time I close my eyes. I can hear the, the sound of driving the knife into his chest, the noise he made. I keep seeing how surprised he was that I had done it. And – and the others. I keep seeing Tracy, the look on her face before she went through the ice. I close my eyes and I feel Brunski’s blood raining down on my face. I can still taste it. I can hear Donovan screaming while he fell. I can’t – I can’t – ”

“Shh, hey,” Noah says, reaching out and pulling Stiles into an embrace. Stiles’ body is wracked with sobs, and he tries to calm down, but can’t. He lets it all out into his father’s shoulder, lets his father rock him back and forth, smooth down his hair.

Gradually, the worst of it passes. His father is still holding him, still rocking him, while he lets out a few final shudders and tries to catch his breath.

“Look, Stiles, I know that I can never imagine what this was like for you,” Noah says. “I know that you’re hurting in ways I can’t even comprehend. But I don’t want you thinking that that means you can’t talk to me. I’m here for you. And . . .” Noah’s quiet for a minute, rubbing slow circles into Stiles’ back. “I’m going to be honest with you, Stiles, because I think that will help. Some people, you know, they say there’s nothing their child could do to make them turn away from them. Maybe some people genuinely feel that way, but I’m not like that. I think if your child does something truly horrible, truly heinous, you have to face up to that and tell them. Like you remember a couple years ago when that guy got caught sexually assaulting some little girls? And his father kept insisting that it was just a ‘lapse in judgment’? That was bullshit. Some things _are_ unforgivable, Stiles, and if you had done anything like that, I would tell you. So you can trust me when I say that you didn’t do anything like that, Stiles. Not even close.”

Stiles snuffles a little despite himself. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, Stiles. I really mean it.”

“Okay.” Stiles leans back into his embrace, letting himself relax. “I think I’m probably gonna cry a lot more before I get this all out of my system.”

Noah hugs him tightly. “Cry as much as you need to, Stiles. I’m not going anywhere.”

“There, uh.” Stiles hiccups a little and pulls away. “There’s probably something else you should know. About Peter. Being very much not the typical werewolf.”

“Okay,” Noah says.

“I, uh, I like him. And he likes me.” Stiles flushes a little pink. It’s an understatement, but he figures that he’ll see how his father reacts to that and then go from there. “He really helped me. I couldn’t have gotten through this without him.”

“I was wondering about that,” Noah says. “About how we wound up with this pack.”

“He was my sponsor.” Stiles pulls out of his father’s lap so he can settle on the sofa a little more comfortably. “Werewolves love to gamble, and they gamble on the games. Once they choose a contestant, they can do stuff like get them medical care between each round – that’s the only reason I survived after the sixth game, after going through the ice. Plus he taught me how to fight and a lot of other stuff, really. He picked me because he thought I was smarter than the other contestants.” A wan smile touches Stiles’ face. “Like you said.”

“Quick and clever,” Noah agrees, smiling slightly in response. “Though I don’t know how Peter would have known that.”

“Oh, uh, they probably left some stuff out of the Highlights Reel because they didn’t want to show me exploiting loopholes,” Stiles says, feeling some of the weight lift off his chest. He gives his father a quick summary of the second and third game, much to his amusement. “So Peter . . . he’s different from other werewolves. His father was human, and his sister was executed for trying to assist with a rebellion at one of the prison camps. He was left looking after her kids. But their pack was really small and people walked all over them – basically treating them as badly as they treat us.”

Noah nods a little. “Okay.”

“So while most werewolves were gambling stuff like food or sex or whatever, Peter gambled that if I won, his pack could expand and people would stop being assholes to them. So he had a lot invested in this – maybe as much as I did, since his nieces and nephew were eventually going to wind up dead, the way things were going for him.”

Noah winces a little. “We all just got inducted into the pack that the people in charge hate. Okay.”

Stiles can’t help but smile. “For now. But I think Peter has plans to, uh, take care of some of those people. And I have plans to stage a huge rebellion and free all the humans in slave camps. So we’ll see how that goes.”

Noah laughs quietly. “That sounds like you.”

“Anyway, so, uh, Peter . . .” Since his father isn’t freaking out, Stiles continues. “We’re kind of a thing? He says I’m his mate. Which I suspect there’s a lot to that he hasn’t told me yet, because he’s like that. But, the stuff that I do know about, is pretty awesome.” He flushes a little pink. “Or something.”

“Mm hm.” Noah studies his son for a moment. “You like him?”

“Yeah. I really do. He’s smart and funny and just gives absolutely zero fucks about what other people think of him.”

“Okay. As long as you genuinely like him, and it’s not something that he manipulated you into by helping you.”

“No, if he was going to manipulate me, he probably would have been actually nice to me, but he’s really a jerk most of the time,” Stiles says cheerfully.

Noah snorts. “Yeah, sounds like your type.”

“He really is.” Stiles leans against his father’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”

Noah presses a kiss into Stiles’ hair. “You’re welcome. Why don’t you get some sleep? You look exhausted.”

Stiles nods. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Or . . . any night, really, since I got here.” His eyes close, then open. “You won’t go anywhere?”

“Of course not,” Noah says. “I’ll be right here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Unlike the slave camps, people in the prison camps aren’t allowed to have families or share meals. They don’t participate in the games, and aren’t updated as to the winners. That means that the man Peter’s there to see won’t know anything about who he is or why he’s there. Peter exchanges pleasantries with the guard, who leaves him in a room for an hour while he checks with his boss, who wants to check with his boss, before they’re sure that Peter is actually allowed to do this. That annoys Peter, although he understands the impulse.

Finally, the door opens and the werewolf shoves a man into the room. He’s taller than Peter by several inches, heavily muscled and with a ragged beard. He looks at Peter somewhat suspiciously. “Chris Argent?” Peter presumes, wanting to make sure that the guards had brought him the right man. He nods warily, so Peter says, “I’m Peter Hale.”

“Hale.” Chris blinks. “Talia’s brother?”

Peter is a little taken off guard, not having expected this. It throws him off his planned script. “Uh . . . yes, actually. I didn’t realize that you would know her.”

Chris nods. “She tried to help us. I never found out what happened to her. We stopped hearing from her a few days before the planned riot.”

“She was executed.”

Chris closes his eyes for a second. “I’m sorry. I figured, but . . .”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Peter says. “Are you familiar with the Survival Games?”

“I’ve heard about them.” Chris shrugs. “Mostly before I was thrown into prison.”

“Well, as you might or might not be aware, the winner of the games is allowed to bring their immediate family to the settlement to be inducted into a pack,” Peter says, and Chris just looks at him blankly. “This year the winner was a young woman named Allison. Your daughter.”

Chris’ eyes widen. “Allison - Allison’s okay? You’ve seen her?”

Peter nods. “She’s fine. She’s been in a slave camp since you two were separated. And she’s waiting back at the settlement for you. The only catch being, of course, that you have to be a werewolf in order to go there.”

Chris’ jaw sets and he looks away. “To - to see Allison - I would, but I don’t know - ”

“You’re afraid you won’t still be you,” Peter says. “That you would get your daughter back, but she would lose you. But you knew Talia. You know that werewolves aren’t all the same. That we’re people, just like you are.” He glances around to make sure the guard has left before continuing, “I’d like the opportunity to continue Talia’s work from the settlement. I could use you there.”

After a moment, Chris nods. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, that - that sounds good.”

“Excellent.” Peter stands and gestures for Chris to follow him. Chris looks a little wary again, like he’s afraid that some of the others are going to tell him that he can’t come. They go through the portal and find themselves on the outskirts of the settlement. Laura is waiting for them there, and Peter doesn’t give Chris a chance to change his mind. He introduces Laura and she gives Chris the bite before ushering him into the settlement.

Unlike Stiles, who had hidden in the den, Allison is waiting right inside. She throws herself at her father and clings to him. He hugs her so hard that he lifts her off her feet. Like Stiles, she doesn’t seem to want to leave his arms. Fortunately, Peter’s able to take care of the rest of it with Laura. They notify the werewolves at Seventeen, who have been waiting for the list of Allison’s choices. Peter had told her not to give it to them until they had known whether or not Chris was going to agree to getting the Bite.

An hour later, the rest of their new inductees are there. Allison’s six choices include three women - Lydia, Kira, and Malia - and three men – Jackson, Danny, and Jordan. They all gather in the new den, and Peter stands back and watches in interest as everyone meets everyone else. Derek and Cora have gotten enough food for an army, and the new werewolves are throwing themselves at it. For a while, eating is all that matters. But it gradually turns into more of a party. Peter has to admit to some satisfaction as he sees the way that everyone is getting along.

“What are you smirking about?” Stiles asks, finally leaving his father’s embrace long enough to walk over to Peter.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how much bigger than pack is going to get.”

Stiles frowns a little. “Future tense? How big it’s _going_ to get, not how big it’s gotten?”

“Mm hm.” Peter nods. “The old-fashioned way. Cubs.”

“Oh.” Stiles looks around, a little taken off guard. He sees the way Scott is blushing at Kira, the way Allison is laughing at something Isaac has said. “Wow, seriously?”

“Yes, absolutely. We’re still towards the bottom of the curve, you know. I’ve been thinking about how my niblings need mates for some time, but couldn’t find anyone appropriate whatsoever to match them with. Now we have some choices. Jordan looks to be about Laura’s age. Derek and Cora are as anti-social as they come, but hopefully I can convince them to at least help with production.”

Stiles is cracking up. “How romantic. You gonna involve me in this, too?”

“Absolutely. I can let you go for a night or two if it gets us more pack members. Try the redhead. She seems intelligent. Your genes along with hers might produce some valuable babies.”

“How about you?” Stiles snickers.

“Oh, I’ve got my eye on that beautiful woman you brought from your camp. Your friend’s mother, I think? She’s not too old to make some more cubs.”

“Say that to her face and she will kick your ass,” Stiles says, practically crying from laughing so hard.

“I’m at least fifty percent serious about this, you know,” Peter says, amused.

“Oh, I know. You’re not even wrong, just, the way you talk about it is just . . . hilariously matter-of-fact. Just keep something in mind. We’re all werewolves now, but we were human up until a few days ago. You want these people to get busy, you’re gonna have to find them some privacy.”

Peter grimaces. “Excellent point. At least the den is bigger now. We’ll have to rig up some curtains and partitions. I suppose I can find a way to do that. Do you – ”

“Hang on,” Stiles says, looking at something across the room. He walks away from Peter without another word, and Peter is thinking about feeling miffed, but he sees Noah helping Claudia into a chair and looking around for Stiles. Peter follows Stiles to see what’s happening. “Hey, how are you feeling?” he asks.

Claudia looks at him blankly. “Who are you?”

Stiles winces a little, and Peter can see the disappointment and frustration written all over his face. But he answers patiently, with the air of someone who has done this many times before. “It’s me, Mom. Stiles.”

“No!” Claudia gasps. “Oh my God – Noah said I had lost some time, but you – the last I remember, you were only this high!” She holds her hand level with her chest, then takes Stiles’ face in both hands. “You’ve gotten so handsome!”

Stiles can barely choke out a reply, and the only word that comes out is, “Mom.” He buries his face in her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her hard. “Mom, say – say my name. Please. Nobody else says it right. Please.”

“Oh, my poor little Mieczyslaw,” Claudia says, and Stiles bursts into tears. He hugs her even harder, his fingers clutching at the back of her shirt. “You must have missed me so much. I’m so sorry, Mieczyslaw. I’ve missed you too, even if I didn’t know it.”

Seeing that Stiles is going to be occupied for some time, Peter walks over to the kettle to make himself some tea. He sees Laura there, watching Stiles and his mother. “Hey, Uncle Peter,” she says, and he gives her a questioning look. She smiles at him and says, “You did good.”

It’s ridiculous to hear that coming from her, as if she’s his mentor or even his equal, but in that moment, Peter sees his sister looking out of Laura’s face. For a moment, his throat is tight and his eyes sting, but then he manages to return her smile. “Thank you, Laura.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles spends the entire night curled up between his parents, his face tucked into the crook of Claudia’s neck. Peter isn’t exactly jealous, although he misses the feeling of Stiles’ body against his. He doesn’t sleep well, and that annoys him on general principle. But the next morning, when he’s making tea, Stiles walks over and gives Peter a little bump with his hip. When Peter looks over at him questioningly, Stiles gives him a kiss. “Wanna get out of here for a bit?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Peter says, putting his tea away.

The two of them head up to the roof, and sit down in their usual places, dangling their legs over the edge. “So what now?” Stiles asks.

“Well, we’ve got a bunch of new wolves to teach,” Peter says. “They’ll all need to learn how to control the shift and anchor themselves, not to mention how to use their new senses. Then we have a choice. Do we start here, at the settlement? Or do we start at the camps?”

Stiles kicks his legs back and forth. “Talia started at the camps and it didn’t go well for her.”

Peter nods. “I agree. We need to start here. Destabilize the power structure. Another thing, though, is more complicated. We need a Druid.”

“Where are we gonna get one of those?”

“I don’t know. But it’ll be absolutely crucial. As long as our enemy can travel by portal and we can’t, they’ll always have the upper hand over us. I think, however, if we cause enough chaos and watch the way Druids react, we might be able to find some who are sympathetic to our cause.”

“Okay.” Stiles nods, chewing this over. “We don’t have a lot of time, though.”

“How is that?” Peter asks.

“In ten months, the games will start again.” Stiles looks over at Peter. “That’s not happening. Not on my watch.”

Peter arches his eyebrows. “I had planned on having years, possibly decades, to get this done. You want to do it in ten months?”

Stiles grins at him. “I hear you love long odds.”

Peter snorts. “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”

“I’m serious, though,” Stiles says, the smile fading off his face as he looks out over the wasteland. “This, what happened to me, what happened to all the others who came here with me, this is never happening again. I will burn this settlement to the ground along with everyone in it who isn’t a member of our pack, before I let it happen again.”

Peter considers that for a moment, before leaning in to press a kiss against the side of Stiles’ throat. “I really should not be so turned on by that.”

“Sure you should be,” Stiles says. “I mean, we haven’t had sex in, what . . . four days?”

“We’ll have to fix that soon.” Peter’s amused despite himself. “But all right. Ten months it is. With Chris Argent’s knowledge of the resistance, we have an edge that I hadn’t accounted for. Of course, Deucalion will know that. He’ll be watching us. But there are solutions to that.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, then shakes himself a little. “Damn it, you mentioned sex and now I can’t focus.”

Peter smirks at him. “I know an easy cure for that problem.”

“Not until you get those partitions up.”

“Fair enough.” Peter reaches out and trails his fingers over the back of Stiles’ neck, enjoying the scent of him. “You know, I honestly do believe you could do anything you put your mind to. You accomplished your goals and then some.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Not without help, though.” Stiles pulls one knee up to his chest, letting the other leg dangle. “I know, mutual benefit, blah, blah, but even so. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Peter says, rubbing his hand down Stiles’ spine. “So do you think you managed to save yourself?”

Stiles looks at him blankly, then gestures to himself and says, “Yes?”

Peter shakes his head a little. “You don’t remember. It was after you nearly went through the ice. You were upset, and taking it out on me. Said that even if you saved your family, you wouldn’t save yourself, because they you that you had been was already dead.”

“Oh.” Stiles looks back out at the horizon. “That was awfully melodramatic of me,” he adds, and Peter gives a quiet snort. “I don’t know. Everything changes, you know? I can change and still be me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all kinds of fucked up. I’m going to have nightmares for years. Maybe I am a different person from when I came here. But I’m still me.”

“Glad we cleared that up, then,” Peter says, amused despite himself. He gets to his feet, and pulls Stiles up beside him. “And on that note, we’ve got a lot to do.”

Stiles nods. “Let’s get to it.”

~fin~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Love What is Behind You by KouriArashi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717611) by [TheBlueMenace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueMenace/pseuds/TheBlueMenace)




End file.
